The Hardships of a Hunt for Freedom
by Jem Kallop
Summary: Marik is a tombkeeper deep beneath the earth, until the day he breaks free. He flees to the Palace in an effort to seek refuge, but ends up finding shelter in one of the least likely places imaginable - in the clutches of the Thief King. Citronshipping chatered fic, rated for violence, language, and some adult themes (but no smut) COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Soooo, I'm writing citronshipping. I know, I know, I have other unfinished stories… *hides* but I have actually half-finished this one already (as in, it's all typed up ready to be edited and posted), and the other half should be finished tomorrow. It's currently at five chapters, so I estimate about 10 in total? At least you know you won't be waiting around for this one ^_^ – Jem**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! is not mine, and nor are Marik and Bakura. They are the creations of Kazuki Takahashi**

Marik's eyes were wide, his hands shaking. The knife clattered out of his grip, sliding down to the ground, slicked with bright red blood that wasn't his. There was no pain anywhere in his body. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making him feel as if pure, white-hot fire had replaced his blood and his body was fuelled purely by rage and panic and madness. His head felt too hot. Sweat curled on his skin, crisping the edges of his being in the hot humid darkness of the tomb. Pressure crowded in on him from all sides, imagined shadows swinging wildly from the lamp that lay softly burning in a corner, its little light flickering and swaying as if panting for breath.

Marik took a step back. Panic was beginning to cloud his head. The stench of the blood was overwhelming, crowding him, tightening his chest and forcing his face to screw up. He could hear high-pitched breathing coming from somewhere, and it must be coming from him. No one else was alive down here. _Not anymore._

Marik's breathing sped up again. His thoughts were tumbling over themselves, all rushing and clamouring to be heard, but he couldn't pause for long enough to focus any of them into making sense. Instead, he stood, caught in a welter of confused emotion of which panic was still at the forefront. Panic that tore through his skull and left him closed and tightened to anything else.

However, something else began as a dull throb in one corner of his mind – a dull throb of fear that was beginning to grow in intensity. It contained the knowledge that something was definitely _wrong_ , that he had gone too far this time, that this time there was no turning back and no way forward either. His thoughts turned into a screaming, babbling mess again. _You've gone too far, you've gone too far, you've gone too far…!_

Marik gripped at his hair, tugging in an effort to get _something_ coherent through his skull. He pulled hard enough for his scalp to erupt into a thousand different pinpricks of white-hot pain, jerking his mind somewhat back to reality and to his current situation. When he lowered his hands, they were full of fistfuls of his own hair.

Marik shook his head. _No time for panicking._ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling his chest inflate, his body fill up. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, his heart thudding far too loudly. The stench of blood weighed heavily in the air; it settled as a metallic weight on his tongue. Marik swallowed with difficulty, and felt like he was swallowing a sword.

He couldn't face the mess at the end of the passage. He _couldn't_. Instead, he turned his back, forcing his feet to take him through the darkness. The airless tomb was stuffy and silent, quieter than the dead, and the stench followed him no matter how far he walked. Darkness pressed around him. He had left the lamp by the … at the end of the passage, he remembered, but his entire body shuddered in revulsion at the prospect of going back there. No. He had started walking now, and he wouldn't stop until he was out. One step after another Marik walked on, placing one foot in front of another in front of another in front of another, going on and on, faster and faster, until the passage was long behind him.

The scent still clung to his clothes, however, like the blood that dripped steadily from his fingers.

Marik shook. He knew he had committed the greatest sin imaginable. He was a tombkeeper, designed to watch _over_ the dead, not add to their numbers. His hands fisted tight by his sides, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. It dripped down to the ground, mixing with the stench still coating his fingers and arm. Blood with blood with blood. _Blood will find blood,_ that's what he had always been taught.

He doubted his teacher had meant it quite like this.

Marik took in another shuddering breath. His chest felt too tight. The musty, stuffy air of the tomb crowded around him, pressing against his eyes and wrapping itself around his limbs until they felt too heavy to move anymore. But Marik forced himself onward. He remembered the way, and he knew it couldn't be too much further, even if he hadn't been this way since first getting trapped down here, all those years ago. _Surely it can't be much further…_

Another turn, and another, and then the floor began rising. Marik could have cried with relief. His mind still rushing in its tumult of thoughts, he fought his way up to the surface. He scrabbled around when he reached the top, his fingernails gritty with the dust and the soil, until finally, _finally_ , he found the lever operating the trapdoor. He pulled on it, sweat and dust setting into his skin, and heard the satisfying _creak_ as it started to move.

Sunlight inched into the tomb.

Marik tumbled out onto the surface as soon as there was enough space for him to make it. He sprawled flat-out on the ground, panting and gasping, drawing great lungfuls of the pure, clean air into his burning chest. The air felt cool to his feverish skin. He lay face-down for what felt like an eternity, willing his body to cool, his rushed heartbeat to slow down, and his thoughts to slow in their endless cycle, tripping over themselves as they clamoured for intention. He squeezed his eyes shut and just lay still.

The quiet of the desert soon settled into his skull. It was louder than the tomb. The rustlings of the grains of sand as they knocked together in the slight breeze that occasionally washed over the desert; the hum of the scarabs that busily rolled their way across the surface; the endless, unforgiving beating of the rays of the sun; all were loud to Marik's tomb-deafened ears. He drew in another shuddering breath, and relished in the fact that he was alive.

Alive and out.

The surface.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he cracked one eye open and turned his face up. The sky rolled on forever, stretching out above him without end, its bright azure reflecting in his violet eyes. His face dropped into one of awe. He remembered the sky, from his time out on the surface before he was sent down to the tomb, but he had forgotten how _endless_ it was. There was so much he had forgotten. The breeze on his skin, the sand encrusted in his nails, the fresh air on his face and in his hair. So much he had forgotten, so much he had given up – well, it was given back to him now.

Marik got slowly and unsteadily to his feet. The world swayed around him, sunlight beating down like a furnace, and slowly he realised he needed to find shelter. He turned his head. He remembered the oasis from the journey here, years and years ago when he had been but a child. And yet, the route was ingrained in his memory. _As if I knew I'd be coming back this way. As if I've always known._

Marik's footsteps were ragged, leaving his tracks in the sand. He didn't care. None but jackals and thieves came out this far, and they were the last thing on his mind as he found his way towards the oasis. A few meagre plants grew up, striving for life in this wasteland, but the thing Marik was most focused on was the water. He ran to it as soon as he saw it. It was warm and tangy, probably filthy, but to Marik it was the sweetest thing on earth. He drank down huge gulps until his body was finally sated, and then he plunged his head in it, unable to stand the burning itching of his scalp and head anymore. Then, he decided he might as well go the whole way, and he cast off his white tombkeeper's robes and plunged his whole body into the water. He tried to ignore the way it stained red as soon as he entered.

Hours later, Marik felt refreshed and cool, if not clean. He clambered his way back out of the water and lay on his back on the sand, staring up at the endless reaches of the true-blue sky. The water had allowed his hot head to cool, and his thoughts had finally settled. He took the image of what he had left behind him at the end of that dark passage, and locked it up firmly in a corner of his mind, placing it behind several walls never again to be opened. He screwed his eyes shut. For better or for worse, now he was out, and he had to decide what to do next.

He couldn't go back to the tomb. That wasn't even a question in his mind. He didn't care that he was breaking tradition, or ruining his honour, or even disobeying a direct order from the Pharaoh. He couldn't go back down there. He refused. The Pharaoh would understand, surely? Once Marik found him and told him what had happened, he would have to see that Marik had only had one option. Wouldn't he?

Marik gave a firm nod. That was to be his plan of action. Find his way back to the Palace, demand an audience with the Pharaoh, and explain everything … well, a version of everything. Then it would be up to him to decide where best to place Marik next. Although Marik did not relish the thought of going back to the Court, he would not survive alone out here. And he would be able to see Isis again.

As he lay staring up at the sky, Marik's mind was finally able to rest and he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

…

The Thief King's men galloped through the desert like the very winds of hell were behind them.

Their horses' hooves tore up the sand in a whirlwind of flying dust, choking anyone who might dare to follow their path through the endless sighing sand. They fanned out, riding in an arrow shape with their leader himself at their head, cutting a straight, determined path through the endless sand. The thunder of their hooves echoed out among the silent reaches of the desert, heralding the sun as it wheeled on its weary route across the burnt blue sky. The Thief King's eyes were hard, his features set in determination. Nothing would dissuade him from his goal today.

"Hold up!"

Cursing under his breath, Bakura tugged on the reigns of his great black stallion, a huff of impatient air escaping his lips. _"What_ is it?" His tone dared the answer to be anything but a matter of utmost importance, and when he turned his head to glare back at his men, his expression clearly showed his displeasure.

It was Menes again. He stood apologetically by his grey, gesturing to her hoof. "She's lame."

" _Again_?"

"I don't think we rested her enough before." Menes rubbed the back of his head, his smooth, unlined face a little nervous. "I tried to say…"

"Enough." Bakura grunted, and swung down from his stallion. He strode back over to Menes, inwardly smirking when the boy shrank back from him a little. Sometimes he wondered if it had been worth bringing him along with them – Menes was young and inexperienced and quick to fear, but he also knew respect and he was good with his letters. Bakura had deemed him valuable enough to travel with them. Plus, the Thief King was loath to leave any man behind, even if he would never admit it aloud.

"Let me have a look at her." He gestured for Menes to move out of the way, which he did. Bakura approached the horse and surveyed her calmly. Menes was right; she looked exhausted. Picking up her back left leg, Bakura noted the raw pinkness of the hoof, and deduced that she would need at least another hour's rest before she was able to keep their pace.

"We're stopping," he grunted with a nod to Menes. "And tell me sooner next time she gets into trouble."

His throat closing up, Menes could only nod.

Bakura turned his back and gestured for the rest of the men to dismount. They would stay here only an hour at the most – it didn't do to dwell for too long in one place, and especially not in this close proximity to the city. Bakura would rather not have stopped at all. Their mission was supposed to be a quick one, and then back out to the far reaches of the desert to make camp, but they couldn't do anything with one horse lame. He stamped off with a low growl.

"Hey." A low voice by his ear made Bakura turn, and he found Anen by his side with his usual calm smile. "Relax."

"Easy for you to say," Bakura snorted. He folded his eyes and glared impatiently out at the desert. "We've got quite some way to go."

"A journey never goes as smoothly as the one leading it would wish."

"I've had about enough of your witty comments, too," Bakura snapped. He turned his head sidelong and smirked at Anen. "Unless you've got any bright ideas?"

Anen lifted his hands. "You're the leader, Thief King."

"Hmph." Bakura grunted, his eyes playful. "As you never fail to remind me."

"I'm just a simple follower doing his job."

Bakura outright snorted at that one. Although Anen was extraordinarily loyal, having been with Bakura longer than any of the other men, he could hardly ever be called _simple_ and he knew it. Anen's dark hair was greying at the temples, his face lined and wrinkled, and he was by far the oldest out of the group of wayward men Bakura had following him. And yet, Bakura trusted his advice over any other – as much as he trusted anyone, anyway.

Bakura turned back around to see the gaggle of his men settling down on the sand. They sat in clumps, two or three at a time, exchanging gruff laughs or harsh words that grated through the otherwise silent desert. Bakura smirked down at them. "Don't get too comfortable – we've a job to do, remember."

"As if you'd ever let us forget." A slight man, thin as a whip, glanced over with laughing pale eyes.

"Whatever do you mean by that, Seti?"

"He means you'd slaughter us all in our sleep if we did," grunted a huge, brawling man hulking in a corner.

"And don't you forget it." Bakura crossed his arms and took to pacing about the makeshift camp, his eyes flicking left and right, his body coiled with tension as it always was. The desert felt quiet today, but Bakura couldn't help but feel as if something was … off. His body was filled with anticipation, and it wasn't just the normal excitement he felt before a raid. No, this time, it was as if something was trying to warn him, as if they would have to watch their steps. Bakura cast his eyes skyward. The jagged scar on his right cheek ached numbly, but he dismissed the pain with his usual impatience. He had no time for such things. His eyes fixed out on the horizon, his brow furrowing, feeling the burning blaze of revenge constantly alight inside him. _Soon_. Soon they would be one step closer.

"T-Thief King?"

The stuttering voice behind him could only have come from Menes. Bakura heaved an impatient sigh, speaking without turning. "Stop moping. It isn't your fault."

"…Oh." Menes still sounded hesitant. "I just wanted to apologise…"

"There's no need. These things happen."

"…Thank you."

"I have even less need of your thanks." Bakura turned his head just enough to raise an eyebrow at Menes, noting his slightly trembling form, his nervous glance. "Neither they nor your apologies will get me to the tomb any quicker."

Menes had no answer for that other than to smile weakly. He pushed his glasses up his nose; a rare, expensive item, one acquired from his time in the Scribe school, no doubt. The other men had attempted stealing them many times before, but Menes clung to them with something akin to desperation until the others took pity on him. Bakura remembered the whole encounter with a wry chuckle.

Menes fiddled with the bottom of his long robes, following Bakura's gaze far out to the desert. He was probably searching for something to say to fill the awkward silence, but Bakura felt no need for such trivial things as small talk. He crossed his arms and continued to glare out towards the tomb. He knew where it was, but how well guarded it would be remained a mystery. It was one of the more recent ones, but that meant next to nothing when it came to the traps and the guardians. He wondered which family had been sent down to become its tombkeepers for the rest of time. _Poor, stupid fools._

"How much further do you think it is?"

Menes' voice broke into Bakura's thoughts again and he shook his head, casting a slightly irritated glance to the short young man behind him. "Four more hours at least, if not a little more."

"Ah."

"And with no more _interruptions_ along the way." Bakura's smooth, fluid voice darkened with amusement.

Menes' face coloured slightly. "I didn't…"

"I know. Just tell me sooner next time; I don't want to have to leave a man behind."

Menes looked even more stricken at _that_ prospect.

"Hey, chief!" Seti's voice boomed across the desert again and he came closer. "Looks like there's some movement behind us."

Bakura's face darkened. "Where?"

"East, towards the city."

Bakura grunted. "Time to get moving then." He headed back towards his great black stallion, lightly stroking his mane. One deep brown eye met Bakura's, burning with the same fire that constantly blazed within Bakura. His coat was soft under Bakura's brown fingers, made coarse with sweat, but the horse's eyes were steely. Bakura matched the expression as he vaulted up onto his back again. "Let's hope your mare is ready, Menes. She's had all the rest she's getting."

Menes stammered out something that might have been another apology, but it was lost in the rustle of the men's practised movements as they readied themselves to leave again. Bakura drove his heels into his stallion's deep black flanks, launching straight into a gallop that threw up the sand behind them. His men scrambled to follow them, but Bakura didn't wait. His eyes were set firmly forward as he dove on through the sand, the desert echoing its empty call around him.

…

Marik awoke again as the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon. His head felt groggy and heavy, his limbs aching from the weight of the sun and warmth of the desert. He stirred slowly. He knew that when the sun began to set like this, darkness could not be far behind, and whilst that didn't really bother him – it had always been dark in the tomb – he wasn't sure what _else_ he might be sharing the night with. It was better to get moving now if he was to reach the Palace by morning.

With a low groan, Marik forced his legs to move. He got his feet under him and wobbled his way upright, still dizzy from the events of earlier. _But he would not think about that._ He had nothing in the way of supplies, but there were reeds growing by the oasis, and he knew enough to fashion a water container out of them. As he sat on the bank weaving the reeds together, his mind began to wander, but Marik kept his thoughts firmly _out_ of the tomb. Instead, he focused on what may happen when he arrived at the Palace. He was sure he would face some repercussions for deserting his post, but once he had told the Pharaoh what happened, he was sure he would be spared his life. At least, with the version Marik planned on telling. His eyes narrowed. He refused to be sent back to a tomb.

He had little other choice than to return to the Palace, though. He would never survive alone in the desert, and he had no friends elsewhere. He had few enough of those in the Palace itself, of course, but there was his sister. She was bound to speak up for him. And the Pharaoh was not a wholly bad man – bound by his duty, yes, but not wholly bad.

Marik was counting on that.

With trepidation still itching away at his stomach, Marik finished his simple flask and filled it up with water, arming himself with plenty for the journey ahead. It would be a long walk back to the Palace, but he knew he needed to make it back there before he could truly count himself as free. His life hinged on whatever verdict the Pharaoh gave him. Marik hated that he had to be so dependent on another person, but he knew he had little choice in the matter. That merely irked him more.

He set his feet towards the Palace, eyes constantly forward as he began his solo trek across the desert.

 **And an end to chapter 1. Thoughts? I hope it isn't too confusing, I promise I'll explain everything eventually ^_^. Also, this isn't actually based on Ancient Egyptian culture – I'm just twisting things from the anime dub and kind of rolling with it. Aheh. *hides again*. Update out tomorrow~ - Jem**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ghdsfdshads I did not expect that response at all! Thanks so much to the reviewers and followes/faves, that means so much to me ^_^ So here we go again. I'm posting this chapter now even though I'm still writing the first draft of the later chapters, because I can :P**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or Marik and Bakura.**

"Halt."

Bakura's eyes were narrowed as they approached the tomb and he threw up a hand to stop his men dead in their tracks. The desert was as quiet as ever, the only sound the whispering of the grains of sand, but he couldn't deny that something still felt very _wrong_ about this. He knew a tomb was meant to be inconspicuous, without marking, since the robberies of the great pyramids had become so common, but this felt too quiet. Bakura was not the first of his profession, he knew, and those first thieves had had it much easier. At least the pyramids stood _out._

Of course, there were death traps aplenty, but that had not changed either. Bakura was just good at avoiding them.

"What's wrong, chief?" Seti's voice sounded again from somewhere behind him.

Bakura ground his teeth. Couldn't the idiot tell when there was a need for silence? He allowed an irritated click of his jaw to travel back, and felt his men shift uneasily around him. If they hadn't picked up on his mood yet, they certainly had now. "Wait here," Bakura ordered over his shoulder before he vaulted down from his stallion, giving him a pat on the way. His stallion made no sound in response; at least _he_ knew to be quiet.

Quick as the wind and silent as a shadow, Bakura darted across the desert, leaving his group of men behind him. His eyes were hard, his fists clenched. As he approached where the tomb was meant to be, his stomach clenched further and unease settled like queasiness in his veins. The sand was ruffled, disturbed, and recently too. Even more concerning, the entrance to the tomb was open. Bakura whipped his knife out and approached slowly, the blade a comforting presence in his palm. It was possible that other thieves had got here first, but also extremely unlikely – after all, everyone knew that the Thief King abounded in these parts. Mothers scared their own children into good behaviour with horror stories of his exploits. Bakura approached the tomb with caution. He could sense the eyes of his men upon him, but he knew they wouldn't follow without a direct order from him. So, he entered the tomb alone.

The darkness closed about him as he moved silently down the passage. His body was crouched, ducking to avoid smashing his head on the ceiling, and he was poised and ready to strike at the first sound of danger. There was an evil stench in the air. It was the stench of fire and blood, and it was one Bakura remembered all too well. He had to fight back flashbacks as he descended deeper into the darkness.

His eyes adjusted quickly, used to travelling often at night and in the dark, and he found his way through the passages by following the stench. As he got into the lower levels, he was forced to stop and tear a strip from his dark black cloak to cover his nose and mouth; the rippling stink of decay was almost unbearable. Taking slow, shallow breaths, Bakura continued on through the darkness, his eyes alert.

It didn't take him long to find the body.

It lay at the end of one of the farthest passages, a broken lamp by its side. Bakura would hazard a guess that it had been male, but the amount of blood coating its face and throat made him practically unrecognisable. His hair might have been blond, or it might have been grey. His skin was lighter than most. _Tombkeeper._ Typical. Those poor clans always suffered a bad fate; lives spent underground, or throats cut by tombrobbers. Usually the latter, if Bakura had anything to do with it.

Unfortunately, someone else had got here first.

Bakura nudged the body with his toe, getting a better look at its belongings. The robes were white and too dusty and blood-soaked to be worth anything, but there were several gold rings around his fingers and more gold at his neck. Bakura would hazard a guess that there was more jewellery at his wrists and ankles too. So whoever did this couldn't have been a thief. Bakura's eyes narrowed. It was a mystery, and Bakura didn't like mysteries that couldn't immediately be solved. It was irritating.

Crouching, he gathered up all the gold from the dead corpse, pressing the cloth tight around his nose and mouth to keep out the worst of the stench. He still felt like gagging when he stepped away, and turned down the corridor with his black cloak newly full. It jingled as he walked; a jolly sound he always liked to hear.

After a quick sweep of the tomb, it was obvious that whoever had killed the tombkeeper was no longer here. All the treasure was, though. Bakura gave a wicked grin when he broke the seal to the burial chamber and found all the gold and riches lying intact. The great Pharaoh Aknamkanon's sarcophagus lay out in plain sight, surrounded by his worldly belongings. Great heaps of glistening gold, coins and jewellery and crowns, ricocheted out from every corner. Bakura eyed them with an approving glance. He and his men would eat well for a long time after this find.

As Bakura approached the sarcophagus, his eyes grew hard. He glared at the likeness painted on the wood. This was the man, then; this was the creature who had ordered the slaughter of his people. Bakura's expression closed off. As he was alone, in the dark and buried amongst the stench of blood and burning, he closed his eyes and allowed a trace of pain to flicker over his vision. It quickly turned to anger, though – a great, burning anger that threatened to swallow him up, and the whole tomb with him, if he allowed it. Bakura's hands clenched into fists by his sides. _You are already dead, but I will still make you pay. You and that damned son of yours._

Working moisture into his mouth, Bakura bent down and spat determinedly straight onto the likeness of Pharaoh Aknamkanon's face. He wiped his mouth off and spun around, his thief's fingers itching to get their hands on the various treasures lying around. He sifted through the gold with practised ease, leaving the majority for his men to collect later, but he did pick up a few rings and a necklace for his own. On his way to the door, he happened across a fine red cloak, lined with a white hood, and his eyes lit up. It was much finer than his current black clothing, and much better suited to the desert temperatures too. It was also hardly worn. _Bastards are buried with riches most of the living never see._ Bakura tossed his black cloak carelessly over the sarcophagus and shrugged on the red finery instead. It was warm and soft against his rough dark skin. _Much better._

Bakura made his wary way back to the surface and waved his men onwards, allowing them to go down to loot the tomb themselves. He would still get first pick of the remaining treasure, and he had no desire to be around that stench for longer than necessary. Indeed, he could already hear the indignant screeches of his men from far below the ground. Bakura allowed himself a chuckle as he unwound the cloth from his nose and mouth.

It didn't take long for Anen to have had enough. He approached Bakura and flopped down by his side, his greying hair tucked back behind his ears and a disgruntled frown covering his features. "Nice cloak."

"I figured it suits me." Bakura arched a brow at him. "And what are you doing back here?"

"Robbing tombs is for younger men." Anen tossed his head back, leaning on his elbows.

Bakura snorted. "I didn't realise how senile you were getting. Or is it just laziness?"

"Nothing of the sort, I assure you."

"Get back down there and help the others."

Anen sighed dramatically, flopping down onto his back. "I'm old. Have pity."

"I have no pity, nor mercy neither." Bakura tucked his knees into his chest and placed his chin atop them, glancing thoughtfully out into the desert. "You are not yet 40, and I've seen you floor men half your age." He flicked another glance out to the desert. It still felt too quiet, and something was unsettling him. After all, _someone_ had to have killed the tombkeeper.

"I know you have just as little desire as I to be down there amongst the dead." Anen's dark eyes watched Bakura closely.

Bakura gave a hollow chuckle. "I'll thank you to remember I went down there first."

"And first back out, too."

Bakura turned his head and shot Anen a glare. He hated that look on Anen's face; it was too close to pity for Bakura's liking. He grunted. "I'm fine. Stop fishing."

Anen pursed his lips. "I doubt that you are, Thief King."

Bakura's glare hardened and he got irritably to his feet. Without a word, he strode off towards the horses, deciding it would be worth giving them another check, especially Menes' grey. His stallion harrumphed gently at him as he passed; Bakura lifted his hand in greeting. He focused on the horses for a time, checking them all over, but they all seemed in good condition aside from Menes' poor grey mare, whose hoof was even pinker now and rubbed raw with irritation. Bakura rubbed her flank tenderly. "You'll need a good deal of rest once we find somewhere to camp."

The horse gave a pained whinny.

"I know, I know," Bakura murmured. He turned his head, beginning to walk back to the tomb, when something caught his eye. He paused. The sand around the tomb had been disturbed, and not just from Bakura's own men; there was another, different set of footprints leading out and away from the tomb. There was also an imprint in the sand, as if a body had lain here for a long while.

Perhaps Bakura had found the killer after all.

"Men!" Bakura bellowed, loud enough for his deep, rumbling voice to carry below the ground, "Get the treasure and get up here! We've got new game to catch."

…

Morning saw Marik stumbling once again into the city, his feet aching and his body caked in sand and sweat. He was exhausted. His water supply had run out hours ago, leaving him dehydrated and freezing as he trekked his lonely way across the desert. Only the knowledge that he would soon be in the comforts of the Palace, with his sister nearby, had kept him going. More than once Marik had simply considered flopping face-down in the sand and letting the final sleep take him away in its clutches.

But he had journeyed on.

Once Marik finally made it to the city gates, the guards took one look at his filthy, unruly form and his white tombkeeper's robes, and immediately arrested him. Marik didn't have enough energy to correct them. After all, they were taking him to the Palace, and that was his ultimate goal – he just hadn't planned to arrive in chains.

The doors opened to them and the guards first dragged him to a dungeon. Marik protested loudly, citing his rights as a tombkeeper that demanded him respect equivalent to the members of the Council themselves. He hotly reminded them that one of said Council was also his sister, and the guards finally relented after exchanging a long, uncertain glance. They led him to the Throne Room instead and sent him sprawling across the floor at the foot of the Throne.

"A rogue tombkeeper," One of the guards announced spitefully, "Found attempting to re-enter the sacred city in this state this morning."

A stunned silence reigned in the room.

Then – "Marik!" Isis's hollow cry echoed through the room and she ran forwards, her white dress rippling around her, but Priest Seto cast his Millennium Rod out to stop her in her tracks.

Marik twitched at her familiar voice. With difficulty, he clambered his way back up to his feet, manoeuvring around the chains binding his wrists tightly together. He lifted his head and surveyed the scene before him. The Pharaoh sat upon his throne at the far end of the room, cast in shadow as he usually was. At his side stood his closest advisor, the old man who's name Marik had forgotten, and fanning out from there stood the rest of the members of the Council. Isis was on the left hand side, with Priest Seto just in front of her.

"Is it truly you, Marik Ishtar?" Seto's voice rumbled like a thunderclap through the silence of the room. "Speak, or consider yourself silenced forever."

Marik eyed the Rod with something close to trepidation. He remembered the Items well enough from his childhood here, and he had seen one too many souls destroyed with it to feel entirely at ease. He grimaced. "Yes, it is indeed me, and I'd appreciate having these chains removed."

A ripple echoed through the room.

"Name yourself," another Council member stated sharply. It might have been Mahaad.

"Marik Ishtar, tombkeeper to the great Pharaoh Aknamkanon."

There was a sharp intake of breath, and then Isis was speaking again, her tone strained. "It's him, it's my brother. Let me go to him…"

"Stay where you are, Priestess." Seto's tone was cold and unforgiving.

Marik looked up in sharp surprise. This greeting wasn't the one he had expected. Yes, he had broken his tombkeepers' oath, but the Palace members here had no idea what had happened to force him to leave. He certainly didn't plan on telling them the truth, but they should at least hear him out. Especially when he was clearly weary after a long night of travel through the desert.

"I can't help but notice these chains are still around my wrists," Marik added conversationally.

Seto glared at him. "Explain your presence here, Ishtar."

Marik glanced down. He knew he couldn't tell the truth, but the long journey here had given him plenty of time to concoct his story. "My Father is dead."

There was a collective gasp from the Throne Room, and he winced when he heard Isis' scream. Even Seto paled slightly at that. He approached Marik slowly, keeping a safe distance, as if he thought he might catch something if he came too close. The Rod remained extended in Marik's direction. "Speak, tombkeeper, and tell all."

Marik swallowed, making his voice sound thin and weepy. "I don't know what happened – I think it was a snake bite. I woke up the night before last, well into the early hours of the morning, and I heard my Father screaming and calling out in his sleep. I went to him immediately, as is my duty, and I found him writhing in his sheets and screaming in pain. He had a fever and a rash I didn't recognise. I immediately went to our medicines and consulted all our books, but none of the traditional antidotes would work. I … I tried…" Marik paused for a moment, rubbing at his dry eyes. "…I tried everything, but he passed away the next day."

Silence greeted the end of his story.

Marik glanced up at the Throne, appealing directly to the Pharaoh. "I didn't know what to do. I am not yet eighteen, and so unable to take over the tombkeeper role solely on my own … I didn't know where else to go…"

Pharaoh Atem remained silent, watching Marik with a thoughtful gaze, before he turned to his High Priest. "Seto, what do you make of this?"

Seto's eyes hardened as he searched Marik's face. Marik made sure to keep his eyes wide, adding a slight tremor to his lower lip. Inside, he was cursing the Pharaoh. _No, don't ask Seto, he never liked me. Ask Isis instead…_

"It is believable enough, certainly," Seto answered evenly.

Marik breathed a sigh of relief.

"I could certainly believe this _boy_ capable of mistaking antidotes for poisons, or mixing up the cure," Seto continued, and Marik almost glared at him before he remembered himself. "However, I do find it troubling that he comes straight here, without first sending word ahead."

Marik did glare at him this time. "Send word ahead? And just how did you expect me to do that, out in the middle of the desert on my own?"

Seto's hand clenched around the Rod, and another Council member _tsked._ "Watch your tongue, tombkeeper."

Marik's glare hardened, but he bit his tongue, instead turning his gaze back up to the Pharaoh. Atem's expression was as impassive as ever, and it was impossible to guess at what was going on behind that mask. For such a young man, Atem was secretive beyond his years. That, or he just honestly had no idea what was going on. Marik had never been able to work out which one.

The Pharaoh considered for another few moments. He leaned in to hear his advisor's words, his eyes constantly trained on Marik, and Marik allowed his gaze to settle back into one of upset and fear. Atem leaned forwards. "Well, you must go back to the tomb."

Marik's eyes widened.

"Yes, you are a little young, but well," Atem allowed himself a rueful smile, "So am I. And you are sixteen now, yes?"

Marik ground his teeth, but forced himself to answer politely. "Yes, two years too young, and…"

"You are older than the Pharaoh," Priest Seto interrupted smoothly, "And intelligent too. I believe you are well capable of the duties of a tombkeeper."

Marik's jaw clicked. "I disagree. The tomb is…"

"You _disagree_?" Seto's eyes narrowed. "With me, a High Priest? _You_ disagree?"

Marik realised his mistake too soon. He tried to backtrack. "My apologies, I meant no disrespect. Only that I could be of more use here…"

"Fancy yourself an advisor, do you?" Seto took a step forwards, and it was all Marik could do to hold his ground. "You have your eyes on my job? On any of ours?"

Marik swallowed, forcing himself to stay calm despite the trembling of his clenched fists. "My sister…"

"Does just fine here without you," Seto growled.

Marik flicked Isis a helpless glance. She stared at him, her blue eyes wide, but she made no move to step forwards. She still looked in shock from learning of their father's death. _Even worse if she knew the truth…_

Marik flicked his gaze back to Seto. "I am no good in a tomb. If a robber comes, my throat will be slit – you can all clearly see that I am neither built nor trained for fighting. I would spend my time above ground, under the sky, and serving the Pharaoh with the talents I have here…"

"Oh, you _would_ , would you?" Seto's tone was scathing. "And leave the great Pharaoh Aknamkanon to the mercy of the thieves?"

Marik clicked his tongue and resisted rolling his eyes. "The dead are dead. Let me serve the living."

A collective hiss rattled through the Throne Room. Seto stepped back with his eyes hard and turned to the Pharaoh, giving a deferential bow and a wide sweep of the room with his Rod. "You hear the blasphemy with your own ears."

Silence held for another long moment, in which Marik twitched. His robes felt filthy, his hands ached from being bound for so long, and he wanted nothing more than to bathe and then get into bed and sleep for an entire week. But he had a horrible feeling that wouldn't be happening any time soon.

Eventually, after what felt like an age, Atem leaned forwards. The lower half of his face just became visible in the light.

"Your verdict?" Seto asked perfunctorily.

Atem studied Marik for a long, long moment before a small smirk tugged at his lips. "My verdict is this: if he wishes to see the sky so much, then let him look upon it forever."

Marik allowed himself the tiniest amount of hope.

"Cast him out into the desert."

Marik's eyes widened in shock. "What?!" Before he could protest, the guards were gripping him by his elbows and dragging him back towards the door. He could faintly hear Isis screaming, but Seto was blocking his view. He stared up at the Pharaoh. "Have you lost your mind?!"

"I believe that is your problem, Marik."

" _I am a tombkeeper!"_ Marik's tone was outraged.

"Were," Atem corrected. "You gave up all right to that title when you abandoned your post and came back to the surface."

"My _Father_ had just _died_!"

"Yes," Atem gave a heavy sigh. "We will mourn his loss greatly. Another family will be sent to purify the tomb and guard over it – a family without such traitor stock as you."

Marik's face was pale and drawn as he was dragged from the room. The doors slammed shut behind him with an awful sense of finality.

He was gone.

 **Another chapter should be out very soon. Also, I'm sleepy, so there may be mistakes in this one as I didn't have the energy to edit it properly, so sorry about that ^_^ Thanks for reading! – Jem**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm updating this early becaaaaause there's so much filler at the start of this story I feel bad, so I'm going to keep the chapters coming until things get more interesting xD Thanks so much for everyone reviewing, I'm sorry I haven't replied to you all but I promise, I really** ** _really_** **appreciate your lovely words and wonderful feedback, and I hope you like this chapter ^_^**

 **Also, I've upped the rating of this fic because later on it gets a bit steamy, and there's some violent stuff in flashbacks too, and swearing as well. There won't ever be explicit smut though – Jem**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or Marik and Bakura**

Bakura and his men pounded across the desert, the sand flying up behind them. Their horses were tiring – they had not planned for this mission to be so long – but Bakura estimated that they had enough supplies to last another few days before they would be forced to make camp and hunt again, but whether or not Menes' grey could last that long was another matter. The horse was whining with every step, and limping so heavily that often Menes had to hop down and run to keep up with them. As a result, their pace had slowed considerably, which only left their supplies to run out the quicker.

Bakura glared down at the sand, watching the trail of footsteps they were following. They were heading in a straight line across the desert, and seemed to be making a trail for the city; even more problematic. They couldn't risk getting close to the city in such a big, noticeable group – not yet, anyway, and certainly not with an injured horse. Bakura knew that his description had been circulated widely, and covering his scar was impossible. Disguise was not an option he wanted to take, anyway – he _wanted_ the Pharaoh to fear both his name and his appearance.

Menes called another halt at precisely that moment. Bakura allowed a growl to slip between his lips. He turned his head to see Menes hopping apologetically off his grey mare, rubbing her mane with soothing fingertips. The horse whinnied loudly in pain. Bakura clicked his tongue and dismounted himself, striding back over to the grey. He snapped his fingers at Menes. "Move."

Menes instantly stepped back.

Bakura drifted his eyes over the grey's sweaty flanks, noting her pants and her pained pale eyes. He went to pick up her hoof, but she instantly shied away with another frightened whinny.

"She won't let me touch it, either," Menes filled in helpfully.

Bakura raised his eyes to the heavens. "And how long has this been going on?"

"Um…" Menes went quiet, his tone even more hesitant than normal. "…The past hour, or so…?"

"You should have told me immediately." Bakura growled and turned on Menes, gesturing to her. "It's probably infected."

Menes' eyes widened.

"She needs a camp, and rest, now." Bakura glared around the seemingly empty desert. They were too close to the city to make proper camp here, so the horse would have to last enough of a journey to get out to a safe distance. Bakura didn't want to go yet, though. The trail of footprints was still calling to him, and he wanted to know _exactly_ where the killer had gone once abandoning the tomb with all its riches still intact. There was a story there, and Bakura wanted to know it. He wanted to know it _now_.

With a rough movement, Bakura reached out and grabbed Menes by the scruff of his cloak. "You. Go and make camp, but get to a _safe_ distance from the city first." He glanced at the grey mare. "Walk, don't ride her, and walk _slowly_. The minute she whinnies in pain, stop and give her a break, even if it's every five minutes. Understand?"

Menes had paled considerably. "Y-yes, Thief King."

"Good," Bakura grunted. He cast a quick glance to the rest of his men. "And take Seti, Thut, and Ibebi with you. Anen, with me."

The men nodded, taking their assigned positions without argument as Bakura swung himself back up onto his horse. He clicked to his black stallion, beginning to gallop once more across the desert. Anen on his gentle dappled mare fell into step beside him. It would be faster with just two, anyway, and much easier to sneak if they did get close to the city. The sounds of the others making slow progress the other way echoed back until Bakura and Anen had travelled out of earshot, and once again were alone in the endless, empty desert.

The dunes stretched out for miles around them, without another figure to be seen anywhere. The sky was bright blue, cloudless once again, and the sun was unforgiving as it beat down upon them. Bakura tugged the white hood of his new red cloak up over his head. He leaned down close to his black stallion, smelling the musky sweat slicking his coat, shining in the relentless rays of the sun. Bakura curled a hand around his mane, murmuring a comforting word. Anen kept steady pace by his side, his dark eyes trained straight forward.

The footprints led them on ever closer to the city. Bakura could sense Anen getting tense. He knew they should turn back soon, before they came in sight of the gates, but he could not bring himself to lose the trail just yet. He had to make absolutely sure of where the killer had gone before he planned his next move, for Bakura was not about to walk into a trap, nor meet another unsolved mystery in the desert. As they thundered on, however, Bakura abruptly held up a hand.

Anen slowed instantly at the unspoken signal. "Thief King?"

"Wait here," Bakura growled, leaping off his great stallion, "And watch the horses."

Anen watched him closely. "Don't do anything rash."

"Oh, you know me, Anen," Bakura flashed him a smirk. "Would I ever do that?"

Anen's lips twitched, but his eyes remained wary as he reached out and took the black stallion's reins. Bakura tipped him a mock-salute, smirking, and turned to pace the rest of the way on foot.

The footprints that Bakura was following weren't much smaller than Bakura's own. Their paces matched almost exactly, too. Bakura's eyes narrowed a little. A person leaving tracks like this had to be slim, if tall, and the tracks were faint, meaning they couldn't weight much. How could such a slight person have killed the tombkeeper, who Bakura remembered being quite a bit bulkier than he himself was? It was yet another mystery. Bakura's jaw clicked as he paced on, silent as a shadow through the ever-encroaching night. The flaming sun was beginning to turn towards the horizon, painting the sky a deep blue streaked through with orange and red.

Bakura tugged his hood further over his face; he was getting even closer to the city. Its buildings stood out, getting taller the closer he came, and the gates soon came into view. Bakura paused when they were within sight. He couldn't risk getting any closer. He ground his teeth in frustration, and crouched to get a better measure of the footprints in the sand. Not much smaller than his at all, and only slightly lighter. He would hazard a guess at this person being a little taller than him, but less built, less heavy. The trail led straight up to the gates, too, so whoever it was had clearly entered the city. Passed this point, the desert became a mess of varied tracks and prints, the wheels of carts and the footprints of many steps muddying the trail, so there was no way to tell exactly where the tombkeeper's murderer had gone. Bakura clicked his tongue in agitation. _So much for that._

Frustrated, Bakura glared at the city and the Palace it contained. He spat on the ground for good measure. _When I return, it will be to bend you all to my will._ He turned on his heel, red cloak billowing around him, and strode back out across the desert to where he had left Anen and the horses. They would head back and follow the tracks of the others to where they should have made camp by now, and spend the next few days resting and recuperating the horses, especially Menes' mare. Bakura would have to contemplate his next plan of action. Sorting through the spoils of this tomb would keep them occupied for a while, and after that they would have to attend the markets to get hard money for their treasures. Soon, they would have enough to begin preparing an all-out assault on the Palace. Bakura's eyes gleamed at the thought.

Ah, yes. Soon enough the Pharaoh would pay.

…

Marik spent the night in the dungeons.

He was still reeling from the verdict of the Pharaoh. He had never expected to get such a harsh welcome, and he certainly never expected to be banished out into the desert. Worry was gnawing at his stomach. There was a reason he had come here rather than chancing his luck out in the desert – he knew there was no way he could survive out there alone. If the wild jackals or scorpions or snakes didn't get to him, then the thieves would, and neither of those were very promising ends. At least the animals wouldn't torture him before he died.

Marik sat back in a corner of the dungeon, throwing balls of mucky straw against the wall. His face was set into a furious dark glower. The cell was deep black, no luxury of a lantern allowed in here, and his eyes felt weak and dark. He had barely managed to get any sleep. The stench in here was awful, waste and muck and disgusting sewage hanging heavily in the air, and he tried not to think too much about what he was sitting in. His hair felt disgusting. His skin was still crusted with sweat and sand from the desert, his white tombkeeper's robe barely recognisable it was so thick with dirt. He continued to ball up the filthy straw and chuck it at the wall, bored, and tried not to think about his fate. Come the morning, he had no doubt that the guards would drag him out to the desert to complete his formal exile.

He wasn't wrong. As soon as dawn broke through the tiny window in the cell, the chains creaked open and two guards appeared. They roughly grabbed Marik, dragging him up to his feet and towing him ruthlessly towards the door. His wrists were still bound in heavy chains that clanked every time he moved.

He was dragged out of the cell and through the city, out in the public's eye for everyone to see him and shame him. Marik didn't care. He bore the brunt of the stares and the glowers, his mind more focused on what on earth he was going to do once his exile was complete. He certainly wasn't going to reduce himself to begging. Atem would never go back on his word, either, not in public like this, and Marik had a feeling his exile was going to be made very public if Seto had anything to do with it. He just hoped that Isis would be spared the pain of witnessing it.

He was dragged on through the city until they finally reached the gates. The Pharaoh and his entourage were already there, waiting, with a number of guards posted around to block off all possible escape routes. The city gates stood proudly open, the desert glistening out past them. Marik sent it a glare for good measure.

As soon as they were close enough, the two guards leading him pushed him forwards and he fell sprawling against the burning hot ground. He coughed, winded. The chains around his wrists rattled again and he glared at them, desperately hoping that they were going to be removed before he was cast out into the desert.

"Marik Ishtar." The Pharaoh's voice sounded from somewhere to his left. Marik sat up with a struggle, managing to get his feet under him, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. He would not be looked down upon, even now. He turned to look the Pharaoh straight in the eyes.

Atem was standing with Priest Seto on one side and Isis on the other. Marik's eyes hardened when he saw his sister. Couldn't they spare her this? Sadistic bastards, they should have been able to see that none of this was her fault. He wondered if she'd be badly punished once he was gone.

"You have been sentenced to exile." Atem's voice sounded so calm as he condemned Marik to what was essentially a fate worse than death.

Marik glared heavily at him. "I'm well aware of that."

Atem's jaw clicked, and Marik could see Seto glowering furiously from the background. Isis was sending him a pleading look, and he could practically hear her thoughts inside his head, despite not having seen her in over six years. _Marik, please, just behave yourself?_

Well, he'd never been very good at doing what he was told.

"As per the terms of exile, you must not enter this city again, on pain of death." Atem looked far too happy as he said that. He raised his arms, and Seto approached with a garment of pure white silk, wrapping it around the Pharaoh's shoulders. Atem stretched his hands out towards Marik. "In the name of the sun God Ra, and using his hand, I pronounce you exiled. Cast him out."

Rough hands gripped Marik once again, pushing him forwards towards the gate, but Marik shook himself free. He lifted his head. "I'll walk myself out, thank you very much."

Atem's eyes watched him calmly from the crowd. Marik turned his head and held his gaze for one, long moment, bravado giving him courage. He smirked very deliberately. "This is not the last you'll be seeing of me."

Atem merely lifted a brow. Seto barely concealed a snort, disguising it as a cough at the last minute. Isis was staring at him helplessly. He tried to send her a reassuring smile before he turned towards the gate and strode out, his hands still bound before him. There wasn't much he could do about that.

As he walked out into the desert, he heard the gates slide shut behind him.

…

When Bakura and Anen finally found their way back to the others, the camp was already well and truly set up. The final embers of a fire sent out a deliciously calm glow in the freezing air of the desert night, a few tents set up as meagre shade from the chill. Menes was sitting by the fire looking sheepish; the other men were all hard at work.

Bakura vaulted off his black stallion as soon as they were close enough, giving his rump a pat. He glanced around the site with approving eyes; there was a damp scent to the air that informed him an oasis was in close proximity, and the tents were already mostly erected. He watched as Anen dismounted beside him, the two horses trotting away no doubt to find the water. Menes confirmed this with a hesitant smile. "The other horses are already at the oasis, it isn't far from here. Ibebi's there too, washing, and the others are setting up the tent apart from Thut, who's hunting."

Bakura jerked his head in a nod, arms crossed as he surveyed Menes sternly. "And why aren't you helping?"

"Erm…"

"We sent him away," barked Seti from a tent. "He was doing more harm than good."

Bakura lifted a brow.

"Look for yerself, chief." Seti jerked a thumb behind him. Bakura turned and saw the remains of one of the tents – or rather, what _had_ been one of the tents – sitting in a crumpled heap. Bakura's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"My grey got loose," Menes confessed in a tiny voice. "She was a bit wild from the pain, and…"

"And she decided to maul one of the tents." Bakura sent his eyes heavenwards. He really _did_ wonder what on earth had possessed him to recruit Menes sometimes.

Menes shifted uncomfortably. "I sent her to the oasis…"

"Yet you didn't go with her?" Bakura's voice suddenly turned low, chilling. He span to face Menes and his grey eyes flashed, his shoulders thick with tension.

Menes swallowed. Anen took a step back, retreating quickly to help Seti with the remaining tents. Bakura advanced another step towards Menes, sending the young man shooting to his feet and stumbling back several paces. He quickly started stammering. "I'm – I-I'm sorry, I – honestly, I didn't mean…"

"Stop babbling," Bakura cut in bluntly. His tone remained low and cold, writhing about the desert with enough chill to lift goosebumps on their arms. "And tell me again exactly _why_ you have abandoned your injured horse."

Menes paled.

Silence held between them, in which Bakura's glare only darkened. His brows furrowed, a deep crease appearing in them, and he strode forward with determination until he reached out and grabbed Menes by the scruff of his cloak again. Menes released something very close to a squeak as Bakura dragged him closer.

"Start talking, before I cut your tongue out myself."

"I'm sorry!" Menes instantly squeaked. "I just – I thought she'd need water, and there were the tents that needed setting up…"

Bakura's eyes went flat. "You did such a _good_ job with those, maybe I should reward you."

"N-no!" Menes paled even more until his complexion was almost white.

Bakura held his gaze for another long moment before he gave a harsh chuckle. "You're lucky I'm feeling remorseful." He dropped Menes to the ground and turned without another glance, red cloak flaring around him. "You're on watch duty tonight. And first scout tomorrow."

Menes made a face, but he knew better than to speak. Instead, he got slowly back up to his feet, shaking out his robes. When he looked up, he jumped with another squeak when Bakura's pale eyes were fixed straight back on him.

"And see to your horse. _Now_."

Menes went without further argument.

Bakura grunted. He turned towards the tent containing Anen and Seti, his eyes narrowing. "I know you were listening in there. Get back to work."

"You got it, chief!"

Bakura himself collapsed down by the fire and closed his eyes, pressing one hand to his forehead. The mystery owner of the footprints was still bothering him. The fact that they had led to the city solved nothing in and of itself, other than perhaps adding more questions to the mix. If the tombkeeper's killer came from the city, then did that mean the Pharaoh had authorised his murder? Was the tombkeeper some kind of threat, or rogue? But if that was the case, then why had the tomb been left open for anyone to enter, with hardly any protection of which to speak? And why was the body not cleaned up? Bakura knew enough about tombs to know that they were supposed to be sacred space, and such a disgusting sight would mean the tomb was no longer purified. Surely the Pharaoh would never have sanctioned that.

Or perhaps he would. After all, Bakura himself knew how ruthless the Pharaohs could be.

Thut soon returned from his hunt with a good bit of meat slung over his shoulder. The thieves knew better than to question its origin; meat was a rarity out here in the desert, and when you got it, you accepted it with thanks rather than getting queasy over where it came from. Bakura stoked the fire up again and set the meat to roasting, the smell soon drawing the rest of them out of the tents and back to the fire. Even Menes came sneaking back from tending to the horses to join them, though he kept his head down and far away from Bakura. Bakura snorted at that. "Are you going to look frightened of me for the whole evening?"

Menes jumped when he realised he was being addressed. His pale eyes were wide as he stared at Bakura. "…Uh…"

"Oh, come now." Bakura smirked lazily, toying with a stick of meat. "You've already received the terms of your punishment. There's really no more need to feel fearful."

"He's right, you know," Seti cut in with a jovial pat to Menes' back that almost sent him sprawling into the fire. "He let you off lightly, all things considered. I think I'd have burned you for breaking _my_ tent."

"Or chucked you out with the jackals," rumbled Thut, his huge muscly body rippling.

Menes blinked, pushing his glasses up his nose with a low squeak. "Uh – then – then I'm very grateful to our esteemed Thief King."

Bakura lifted his hunk of meat in a mock-salute, his mouth too full to respond.

Ibebi rolled his eyes. "'Esteemed', indeed."

"He would be if he ever actually shared his spoils," Seti snickered. "Nice new cloak you got there, by the way."

Bakura very coolly reached out and cuffed Seti around the back of his head.

"I'm just saying," Seti shrugged with an easy grin, "You'd be a much better leader if you let us have some share, too."

"You get plenty of loot, and don't think I don't know about the stash under your blanket, Seti."

Seti's face coloured amidst a round of chuckles from the other thieves.

"And for that, I think you can be on first scout tomorrow, too," Bakura added with a mischievous grin. "Babysit Menes over there for us."

Menes glared, "I don't need babysitting!"

"I'm not no kid-watcher!" Seti admonished at the same time.

Bakura sent them both a chilling grin. "You are now. To bed, all of you – except you, Menes, you're on first watch."

Menes mumbled something unintelligible, but obediently got to his feet and wandered out to the edge of the camp. Thut, Anen, and Seti disappeared straight into their tents, but Ibebi paused for a moment, giving Bakura a measured glance. "You want the last tent, Thief King?"

"Naa." Bakura glance up briefly from gnawing on his bone of meat. "You have it."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. What kind of leader would I be if I didn't give my underlings all the best comforts?"

Ibebi threw a blanket at his head as he went into the tent. Bakura chuckled, but scooped up the blanket willingly enough. He finished gnawing the last of the meat on the bone, until it was little more than flavour, and he laid down on his side with the blanket laying lightly over him. He stared into the final glowing embers of the fire as he waited for sleep to take him, and his last thoughts were of the mysterious trail of footprints leading from the tomb into the city.

 **I feel like this story is going really slowly at the moment. I promise it picks up – like, next chapter, Marik and Bakura actually meet! xD I hope you're enjoying, if you've made it this far, and look out for an update soon – Jem**


	4. Chapter 4

**Second update in a day, I'm on a roll xD There's just so much filler at the start, but as promised, Marik and Bakura actually meet this time. Also, I wrote the first seven chapters to this story in one sitting to 'Centuries' by Fall Out Boy, which is a perfect song for Thief King Bakura. So there may be many mistakes, which I'm trying to edit out along the way xD Thanks to everyone following and reading this story, I am really grateful! I hope you like it – Jem**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and Marik and Bakura are still not mine.**

Marik spent his first night in exile freezing under a rock.

He had been exiled in the morning, meaning that he had most of the day to find himself a fairly decent place to shelter, and hopefully a source of water too. That's what he told himself was most important – water, shelter, and then food. Then he could tackle the other, more serious issues, like what the hell he was supposed to wear or where he was going to go out here on his own. And, of course, how he was supposed to stop himself from going completely insane.

He soon found that talking himself through tasks helped. "Come on, Marik, just another few steps to the top of the sand dune, and then you should be high enough to spot some water." The desert was terrifyingly vast and incredibly empty – it stretched on and out as far as he could see, horizon to horizon covered in an endless expanse of empty sand. The sky was equally empty, hardly a cloud in sight, aside from that relentless sun that rolled its way from horizon to horizon, painting the sky a different shade of blue with every hour that passed. Marik found himself wishing he had a hood, or a head covering of some kind – it was painfully warm out there.

His tombkeepers' robes were filthy. Marik felt all in all disgusting from his night in the dungeons, and his long walk across the desert before then, and he longed for the chance to wash. But, he didn't know the signs of the desert, and he didn't know how to spot water. So, as the day beat on and he got thirstier and thirstier, he could find no sign of an oasis, no running water at all. As the day wore on into evening, he even resorted to digging through the sand in the hope of finding something vaguely liquid, but all that achieved was more sweat and sand stuck under his fingernails.

As the sky began to taint pink with sunset, Marik abandoned all hope of finding water and instead began searching for somewhere fairly safe to sleep. He had heard the cry of a few jackals whilst he was out walking, but he had yet to actually see one in the flesh, and they had sounded quite distant. He hoped they would stay that way – the last thing he needed was an unfriendly night-time visitor, especially with his hands still bound in chains as they were.

Eventually, Marik found a sort-of outcrop of rock sticking out from one of the sand dunes. It was meagre shelter at best, but it was the closest Marik had seen all day, and the night was quickly getting dark. He huddled under the rock, as close to its warm surface as he could get, and tugged his tombkeepers' robes tight around him. His hands were still bound with the chains, but no matter how much he tugged at them, all he succeeded in doing was rubbing his wrists raw until they swelled up and actually made the chains _tighter_. Marik screwed his face up, trying to ignore his discomfort as he closed his eyes for the night. He could feel things _wriggling_ around him, particularly in the sand by his feet, but he ignored them as best he could. His body was so exhausted that despite his predicament, he soon found himself drifting into sleep.

 _"Marik."_

 _The sound of his name from his father's lips sent shivers of fear rippling down Marik's spine. His hands clenched into fists by his sides, his entire body trembling, and instantly he felt as if he was ten years old again, and not sixteen._

 _Footsteps approached, muffled in the musty air of the tomb, until he was standing right in front of Marik. His tiny piggy eyes were as mean as Marik remembered, and the knife in his hand glinted dangerously in the flickering lamplight. "Are you ready?"_

 _Marik swallowed. No, he wanted to say, no I'm not ready and I likely never will be._

 _But his father didn't him a chance to answer. Instead, he turned his back and strode confidently through the passage, clearly expecting Marik to follow. Marik did; he knew he had no other choice, not down here in the darkness. He had been down here for so long now that he barely remembered what the sunlight looked like._

 _His father led him into the burial chamber and told him to wait whilst he prepared the ceremonial chamber. Marik averted his eyes from the sarcophagus, instead focusing on the treasure that littered every corner. So much beauty, so much gold, but only for the eyes of the dead and those that keep them. Marik almost felt sad at that. He wandered about, brushing his fingers over the gold until his fingers snagged on something red. He narrowed his eyes, tugging at the cloth. It was smooth under his fingers, hardly worn – a cloak of a deep rich red, with a beige-white hood and lining decorating it. A fine piece of garment, fit for a Pharaoh. Marik eyed it with longing before he put it back. He knew Father would never let him keep it._

 _His Father soon returned, the knife still in his hand. He beckoned Marik over. Marik obediently followed him through the winding passages, although his gut was beginning to twist with trepidation. When they entered the ceremonial chamber, candles were lit on every available surface save the table in the centre. That had straps fastened at head and tail, and a strange-smelling brazier by its side._

 _"And now, we enter the most sacred rite of the tombkeepers."_

 _Marik swallowed. He already felt claustrophobic; this room was made of nothing but leaping shadows. "What are we doing here, Father?"_

 _"It's time for your Initiation." With that, his Father's hands landed on Marik's shoulders and gave him a push towards the table._

 _Marik reacted instantly, twisting out of his grip with a confused, shocked stare. "What are you talking about?"_

 _"The sacred rite of the tombkeepers," his Father intoned slowly. "The Initiation ceremony. It's your time."_

 _"No!" Marik's eyes narrowed. He had read about such ceremonies before, in his history books, but as far as he knew the barbaric practices had been outlawed long ago. He eyed the knife in his Father's hand with trepidation. "I was told…"_

 _"You were not yet ready for the truth." His Father lifted the knife high in the air, its blade glinting in the candlelight. "Now, you have come of age, and it is time for your Initiation."_

 _"No!" Marik's shout turned into a scream as his Father advanced on him. The candlelight jumped, sending violent shadows shooting jaggedly up the walls in the airless atmosphere of the tomb. Fear and blind panic gripped him, forcing him to act on instinct, his feet carrying him as far away as he could get, but the figure was following him with that ever-present glint of the knife…_

Marik startled awake instantly, shooting upright with a low gasp. He pressed one finger to his pounding head, the chains about his wrists rattling and scratching at his swollen skin with an uncomfortable rawness. He was shivering, his throat parched, and his mouth as dry as dusty old parchment. He tried to wet his lips, but it didn't feel like there was any moisture left anywhere in his body.

With an effort, Marik turned his head upwards, his back cracking against the rock he was still leaning against. The sun was high in the still-cloudless sky by now, the last reds of dawn just disappearing below the horizon. Marik blinked. _How long was I sleeping_?

The nightmare still clung to the back of his lashes. Marik shook his head, scrubbing both bound hands through his hair and down his face, though he shuddered with revulsion at the muck covering every inch of his body. Today, he had to find water, or he would likely not survive another night. Already he felt as if he didn't have enough energy to move.

"…didn't know she was going to go lame…"

The sound of a new voice carried through the air into Marik's ears. He stiffened instantly, his eyes going wide with fear. As far as he knew, no one had any reason to be this far out into the desert unless they were an exile like him, or some other form of outlaw. The brief thought of thieves flitted across Marik's mind and he shuddered, his tombkeeper instincts still crawling at the very thought. Nothing was lower than a thief; nothing save a tombrobber.

"I should have noticed," a new voice answered the first a little ruefully. "She'd been complaining all day."

"Still, you weren't to know," the first voice responded. "Chief's just being a bit harsh at the moment."

The second gave a small laugh. "When isn't he?"

"I suppose you have a point there."

"Besides, it could be worse. At least he isn't making me take first scout alone."

Marik licked his lips, staying as quiet and still as he could. The voices were sounding somewhere to his left, past the rock, but if they came any further this way then he was sure they would see him. The rock was barely covering him as it was.

Sure enough, after another few seconds, the first voice paused. "You smell that?"

"Hm?"

"Stop a minute." The sound of the footsteps stopped, followed by a few heavy sniffs. "That. Yep, that's definitely the stench of an unwashed body."

Marik felt his brows lowering in anger. _You try washing after the hell I've been through, bastard._ He kept his mouth shut, though, and held his breath as the two others approached.

"You know, I think you're right," the second voice answered in a soft tone.

"Think he's still alive?"

"I sure hope so."

More footsteps, and then, out of nowhere, two faces appeared floating above Marik's head.

Marik reacted with an instinctive wild croak, his limbs flailing out as he forced himself up and out from under his rock. His limbs were weary, aching from being stiff and cold for so long, and Marik almost instantly found himself doubling over with a low groan. He cradled his stomach, wincing, and glanced up at the two who had found him.

They were both men, not much older than he was. One had slightly lighter skin, almost as light as Marik's own, and golden glasses sat perched on his nose. His long brown hair was tied back in a neat low ponytail, revealing his sharp cheekbones and thin face. Marik blinked. He looked nothing like an exile or an outlaw should – but what else would he be doing this far out in the desert?

The other was another matter completely. He was tall, taller even than Marik, but as light and thin as a whip. He had dark hair cropped close to his scalp, and his pale blue eyes were dancing. He looked older than the other, but not by much.

The two exchanged a glance. The one with the glasses turned back to Marik, his tone questioning but not in the least bit threatening. "Who are you?"

"More importantly," the other interrupted in a rough dialect that Marik didn't recognise, "What are you doing out here? _Alive_?"

Marik blinked. He opened his mouth to answer, but all that would come out was a harsh croak in nothing like what his normal voice sounded like.

The one with the glasses instantly gasped. "Gosh, how long have you been without water?" He instantly dug around in his pack until he found a flask and pressed it quickly into Marik's still-chained hands. "Please, drink your fill."

Marik took the flask, his face creasing with suspicion.

"It's just water," the other promised.

Marik pursed his lips, not willing to trust a stranger so easily, but his throat was bone dry and he didn't see that he had much choice. Reluctantly, he lifted the flask to his lips and took a sip.

And then a long draft.

When he was done, almost all the water in the flask was gone and Marik was panting apologetically. The young man took it back with a small smile. "It's quite alright; there's plenty more back at the camp. I'm Menes, by the way, and this is Seti."

The other man tipped him a mock salute.

"And what's your name?" The one with the glasses – Menes – asked gently.

Marik coughed, clearing his throat. His eyes were still suspicious. "Who are you?"

They exchanged another glance before Seti replied, "Think you should be the one answering our questions, stranger."

"I don't much want to," Marik responded, irritated by how gravelly and rough his voice still sounded,

Seti's eyes narrowed. "After we've shown you a kindness and all?"

Marik didn't answer. He kept his expression stern and distrustful.

They exchanged a glance again, and Seti jerked a thumb in Marik's direction. "Think we should take him back to the chief?"

Menes wrinkled his brow. "…I think that might be our only option. We can't leave him alone out here."

"Right you are." Seti approached Marik, but Marik instantly backed up a step, his limbs screaming out in protest. He glared at both of them.

"And if I don't want to come with you?"

"I really wouldn't recommend that," Seti advised with a wicked smirk.

Marik's eyes hardened.

"Come on," Menes pointed out, "You're alone out here, and there are two of us."

"Plus, you don't look in any condition to be starting a fight," Seti added with a wicked grin.

Marik glared between them before relenting, knowing that they were right. He shifted his aching wrists around the chains still binding them. "And just who is your leader?"

"You'll be meeting him soon enough," Menes answered evasively. He took Marik's elbow and gently began to steer him across the desert, headed in what Marik guessed was a westerly direction. "And you might want to answer his questions a bit more readily than ours. He doesn't take kindly to people who don't do as he says."

"As Menes knows all too well," Seti snickered from Marik's other side.

The walk across the desert was painfully slow. Marik's wrists were swollen and sore, the chains rubbing with every motion he made. His legs ached, cramped and cold from his night crouched under the rock, and every step was agony. He gritted his teeth and bore it as best he could, having to lean heavily against Menes as he walked, much to his shame. Seti even offered to pick him up and carry him, but Marik instantly denied needing _that_ much assistance. He would always walk for himself.

Eventually, the beginnings of a campfire came into view. Marik could feel worry gnawing at his gut again, his stomach roiling with nerves and anger at the indignity in this entire situation. He was a _tombkeeper_ ; he demanded respect, not to be held captive by people he could only guess were thieves. Never mind how much Menes looked like he belonged in a library.

"Holler!" Seti called out as they approached, sending Marik a sidelong glance that he didn't much like. "Present for the Thief King!"

And at that, Marik's blood ran cold.

 _The Thief King_?! No, there was no way he had heard that correctly. It couldn't be the Thief King. It _couldn't_. Rumours of the infamous thief had spread from before Marik had entered the tomb, and since then his power had only increased. Indeed, every message that his Father had received from the Palace, however rarely, had included reports of the Thief King and his men running the kingdom ragged. They were reportedly the worst criminals ever to curse Egypt with their existence. Marik had been taught the Thief King's description well, from his white hair down to the jagged scar decorating his right cheek, and all for the purpose of recognising him should he ever dare to enter the tomb. It was already well documented that he and his gang were well-known tombrobbers.

Marik's skin crawled.

"Oho!" A new voice, darker than all the others, sounded from the campfire. "A gift for me, indeed? Bring it closer then."

Seti placed a firm hand under Marik's elbow and dragged him forwards. He growled and resisted, but with his body as weak as it was, he had hardly any fight in him and Seti overpowered him easily. Marik glared daggers at him. He was sure, in any other situation, he could have taken him in a fight – but not when he hadn't eaten and had barely slept in two days.

As they approached the campfire, Marik noticed for the first time the men seated on the sand in a rough circle. He counted four, plus the two who had found him. _Only six? Six men have caused the Pharaoh this much trouble?_

His eyes instantly zoned in on the one seated at the head of the fire. White hair, just like Marik had read about, was just visible from under a long beige hood, and a red cloak flared down the rest of the body.

A very _familiar_ red cloak.

Marik's eyes widened in consternation and he pointed straight at the cloak, chains rattling, as he spoke without thinking. "Hey! That's _mine_!"

A stunned silence settled over the men present. Then, a deep chuckle sounded from just beside Marik, and Seti's voice broke the tension with a chortle. "Well, would you look at that, chief. Turns out your present think he owns you."

A round of laughter sounded from all the men but one. The Thief King himself sat in quiet admonishment, his dark glare fixated straight on Marik. Marik found it hard to look away. He suddenly felt as naked as a babe under that piercing stare, absolutely positive that the Thief King was analysing every tiny thing about him. He shivered.

"Gods above, where did you find this one?" Another voice from around the fire asked.

"Hiding under a rock," Seti answered smugly, "With his hands chained and all, and throat so parched he couldn't speak."

"I gave him my water," Menes piped up helpfully.

Another man, huge and burly, spoke up with a chortle. "He seems to have got his tongue back alright now."

"Quite." The Thief King spoke for the first time, his strong gaze never leaving Marik's. He arched one questioning brow. "And why, may I ask, do you think my cloak is _yours_?"

Marik licked his lips. He could feel every eye staring at him, and he knew he had to tread carefully here. If these disgusting, sacrilegious _tombrobbers_ ever found out his former occupation…

"I should warn you," the Thief King continued delicately, "It's usually in people's best interests to answer my questions immediately and honestly. Understand?"

Marik's eyes narrowed. "I don't take threats from the likes of you."

A rustle went around the group, accompanied by a soft gasp. Before Marik could move, Seti pulled him close by an arm around his torso, and a knife was pressed up again his throat. "Want me to dispose of him now?"

"Slowly," the Thief King answered, and his eyes had still never left Marik's. "We don't want to scare the little _tombkeeper_ away."

A look of shock flitted across Marik's face, quickly replaced by a glare.

A low rumble echoed around the campsite as each of the men took to glowering at Marik. Seti's grip tightened around him, the knife digging into his throat, and Marik found himself swallowing past the cold steel. The tall, burly one got to his feet, his eyes dark and menacing. He spat at Marik's feet. _"Tombkeeper._ I say we get rid of him … _slowly._ "

Marik's face paled.

"Now, now, no need to jump to such conclusions," the Thief King continued smoothly. "I say first, he answers some of our questions."

"Just kill me now and be done with it," Marik spat. "I'll tell you nothing."

"Brave words, for someone in your positon," the Thief King noted with a wry smirk.

Marik's glare intensified. He hadn't counted on _this_ at all when he had first been exiled – he never would have expected to find the _Thief King_ so close to the city, or the Palace. Although the rumours stated that the notorious thief guarded over the desert like a shadow, knowing instantly the moment anything entered or left, Marik had always assumed they were stupid rumours. They had to be.

…Didn't they?"

"Come now," The Thief King murmured again, that lazy smirk still stretched across his lips, "It's just a few questions."

"How did you know what I was?" Marik asked quickly, feeling the knife blade dangerously close to his throat.

The Thief King leaned back a little, his expression guarded, before a lazy smirk broke out across his face. "You're wearing the white of the tombkeepers – or, I presume those robes are white, beneath all that muck."

Marik glanced down at himself and felt a small shudder ripple through him. He still felt disgusting, and caked in mud and sweat.

"Now," the Thief King spoke again, his voice low and dark and strangely alluring. It was the kind of voice that enticed people to listen. "Answer my questions, and I might just be tempted to take those chains off your wrists."

Marik stared at him in open shock before his eyes narrowed. "Why in the hell would you do that?"

"To reward you for good behaviour." The Thief King leaned back on his elbows, surveying Marik like a jackal watching a rat. "And you couldn't exactly go far, even if you did escape."

Marik flicked a quick glance around the desert, and knew he was right. Even surviving just one night out here alone had proved almost enough to kill him. Marik glared back at the Thief King. "I'm still not telling you anything."

"You haven't even heard the questions yet."

Marik bit his lip and glared.

The Thief King got to his feet and approached, pausing just in front of Marik. They were almost matched in height, Marik a little taller he realised with a grin, but up this close Marik could get a good look at the jagged scar dripping down the right side of the thief's face. It was white and dangerous, old by the look of it, although the Thief King himself did not look that much older than Marik.

The Thief King idly lifted a hand to touch the chains binding Marik's wrists. His voice was low, alluring, and his strange musky scent surrounded Marik. Marik had to repress a shudder. The Thief King's fingers began idly caressing the chains. "What's a tombkeeper like you doing out in the desert alone, with his hands bound?"

Marik curled his hands into fists, wincing at the rub on the chains. He glared. "I was exiled."

The Thief King quirked a brow. "Oh, really now? That wouldn't be for abandoning your post, would it?"

Marik blinked in surprise.

Bakura jerked his head in a nod, his grey eyes gleaming from under the hood with something Marik couldn't quite place. "Brave of you, to go out to the surface voluntarily."

Marik's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about our customs?"

The Thief King gave another lazy smirk. "I'm sure you've heard of me. You know the stories."

Marik's eyes narrowed. " _Tombrobber_ ," he hissed.

"Quite so." The thief smirked, dropped his fingers from Marik's chains, and tugged the red cloak he was wearing tighter around him. Marik recognised that cloak as easily as breathing – it was the same one that was _supposed_ to be sitting in the burial chamber of Aknamkanon's tomb. He drew in a shuddering breath, feeling his heartbeat beginning to race. _He's been in the tomb. He's been in the tomb. So has he seen…?!_

Abruptly, the Thief King turned his head and moved back towards the fire. When he turned around, it was with a long, curved blade in his hand. Marik's eyes widened. The Thief King motioned for Seti to move back, and the blade was finally removed from Marik's neck, only for the Thief King instead to step up in front of Marik. His pale grey eyes were glittering as he stared at Marik, the blade hovering between them. Marik felt fear twist tight in his gut. The Thief King's scent was everywhere, musky and dangerous, promising a hint of a life lived in the shadows. The desert was silent all around them, and Marik knew it would be absolutely fruitless to call for help. There would be no one else here if this was the Thief King's land. Marik's heart raced in his throat, his limbs trembling. He almost wanted to glare at himself. Here he stood, face-to-face with the most feared and reviled criminal in Egypt, and all he could do was quiver.

After a long, long moment, the Thief King spoke in a voice almost too low to hear. "Hold out your hands."

With a sudden shock of understanding, Marik lifted his bound wrists.

The blade shot down between them, cutting smoothly through the chains and freeing Marik's swollen, reddened arms. He gave a small yelp as the blood began rushing through to his fingers again. He flexed them, wincing at the pain, and rubbed at his wrists frenetically.

"Don't do that," the Thief King ordered calmly, "You'll only make the irritation worse." He turned his back again and motioned for Seti to step forward. "Take him to the oasis and see that he washes. And fetch him some water." The Thief King's mouth quirked upward. "Friends, it would seem we have an honoured guest."

 **See, I said they'd meet this chapter ^^ not much else happened though … aheh … oh well, the pace should hopefully pick up a bit now. Thanks for making it this far! – Jem**


	5. Chapter 5

**Another day, another update. Like I said, I think things should start picking up a bit now they've actually met. Thank you for your patience, and all the lovely reviews! – Jem**

 **Disclaimer: Marik, Bakura, and Yu-Gi-Oh! are not mine**

Bakura watched with an interested glance as Seti led the newcomer away towards the oasis. His chains lay scattered on the floor where he had cut them. The tombkeeper's eyes had flashed with relief when Bakura sliced through them, and it was obvious that they had been causing him a lot of pain and discomfort. And yet, he had still stubbornly refused to give Bakura any sort of satisfactory answer. That sort of behaviour usually got people killed. And yet, Bakura's interest was piqued. It felt far too much like a coincidence that the day after they discovered an open, unguarded tomb, a mystery exiled tombkeeper showed up at their doorstep.

Far too convenient indeed.

"Thief King," Thut grunted from his seat on the sand, "What are you going to do with him?"

Bakura pursed his lips, his eyes gleaming as he thought. He crossed back to the fire and began to stoke up the embers. "I think we can get a lot more information out of him. He is not to be harmed, understand?"

"But Thief King…" Ibebi's eyes narrowed and he glanced up at Bakura.

"No arguments, Ibebi. He could prove very useful if he has more knowledge of the tombs." _Or better yet, the Palace,_ Bakura added silently to himself. After all, those footprints had led to the city. If this mystery little tombkeeper knew the workings of the Palace, then he could prove utterly invaluable to Bakura. "I want all of your words that no harm will come to him, unless by my direct order."

Reluctantly, they all muttered their assent.

"Good. Now scram – go make yourselves useful elsewhere. I want time with him when he gets back from washing."

…

Marik stared at the oasis in consternation. "You want me to wash _here_?!"

"Yep." Seti wore a wicked grin as he leaned against the trunk of a tree.

"But it's tiny!"

"It's better than anything you usually get out here," Seti responded airily. "Better get used to it, kid. From the look in the chief's eyes, I'd say you'll be staying here quite some time."

Marik fumed inwardly. The oasis was barely worthy of the name – it was a tiny patch of muddy, lukewarm water covered more in sand than moisture. He curled his hands into fists. "At least give me some privacy if I have to wash."

"Can't," Seti replied with that infuriating grin. "Can't risk you running off."

Marik rolled his eyes. "I promise not to."

"Now why would I believe someone who won't even give me his name?"

Marik drew in a deep breath, cursing to himself. Even if Seti had a point, Marik was never going to admit to it. He closed his eyes and passed one hand across his brow. "Then turn your back. You'll hear me the second I try to run."

"Too right I will," Seti answered with a threatening stroke of his blade. "Only, you know better than to try pulling anything like that, don't you?"

Marik jerked his head in an irritable nod. Once Seti had his back turned, Marik moved as far away as the tiny oasis space would allow, and ruefully removed his tunic. His body shuddered when it came into contact with the open desert air, his back instantly smarting, but Marik quickly drew his thoughts away from that track. He tossed the filthy garment onto the sand and crouched by the water, sinking as much of his body into it as he could. Beneath the filmy, sandy surface, it was actually quite pleasant, cool and soothing against Marik's burning skin. Once he had acclimatised, he ducked his head under too, giving his hair a good rinse. The water soon turned filthy, silted with sand and sweat and the muck from the dungeons, but when Marik emerged, he felt cleaner than he had in days.

He took the time to soak, allowing his body to cleanse fully as his eyes drifted around the oasis. Near Seti's back, there stood a collection of horses – six in number. One grey mare rested a little separate from the others. Then there were three browns, a mixture of mares and stallions; one dappled mare; and one large black stallion. His head was reared high and proud, and one steely dark eye was fixed straight on Marik. He swallowed. He would bet everything he had left on that being the mount of the Thief King. He was certainly scary enough. Marik gave a low shudder, remembering the Thief King's low voice and dangerous face. He had to get out of here. If the thieves ever found out Marik's connection with the Palace, he knew he wouldn't live long enough to scream out a "Wait! Hear me out! I don't like them either!"

At least now he knew where the horses were, he could perhaps try and make a run for it when they slept…

Surely even thieves had to sleep.

Turning his gaze away from the horses, Marik eyed his filthy white robe with trepidation. He was loath to put it back on – it was still encrusted with muck, and there were still hints of red curling around one sleeve. Marik shuddered, fighting back revulsion. The white also marked him as a tombkeeper, and that wasn't a title he wanted to bandy about too freely when he was surrounded by tombrobbers like this.

"Hey, hurry up, tombkeeper," Seti's annoyed voice sounded. "Some of us have got work to do."

"Alright, alright," Marik grumbled. Once a quick glance had shown him that Seti still had his back turned, Marik clambered up out of the water and, still dripping, tugged on his tombkeeper's robe, wincing as it brushed over his back. His skin crawled when it came back into contact with the muck. He shook his hair out, threading his fingers through the dripping strands, and then turned back to Seti. "We can go now."

Seti turned and sent him an appraising glance. "Don't scrub up too badly, for a tombkeeper."

Marik glared. "From a filthy tombrobber, I take that as an insult."

"Oho!" Seti's pale eyes glimmered and he released a dark chuckle. "The tombkeeper has a bite." He reached out and took Marik's elbow again, starting to drag him back over to the camp. The sand slid under their feet.

Marik shook himself free irritably. "I can walk for myself."

"Can run for yourself and all, I bet." Seti calmly reached out and took Marik's elbow again, his grip warm and firm. Marik wriggled. Seti turned and glared. "If you don't come quiet, I'll chain you up again and drag you by your wrists."

Marik bit back a shudder. His wrists were still rubbed red raw from the chains, swollen and aching, and he didn't put that threat past this thief at all. After a few long minutes, he jerked his head, grinding his teeth. "Fine."

"Good. Come along then." Seti tightened his hold on Marik's elbow and steered him towards the camp.

The same five men were still there, sitting in what looked like merry conversation around the fire. A round of laughter would occasionally sound from them – a rangy, dangerous noise that Marik was sure had caused many nightmares to the villagers around here. They were all engaged in talk aside from the Thief King himself, who leaned back on the sand idly listening whilst gnawing on a bone that had probably recently contained meat.

Seti guided Marik right up to the campfire. "Present's back, chief."

All conversation stopped. Every eye trained on Marik. He shifted uncomfortably, unused to this amount of people in one place, especially when they were all staring straight at him. He felt naked again, and actually glanced down to check he _had_ put his robes back on.

When he looked back up, the Thief King was staring straight at him.

Marik gave a start, his eyes going wide before he narrowed them deliberately. The Thief King had removed his hood, and Marik got a good look at his face for the first time – it was smooth, young, but the scar down the side of his cheek stood testament enough to how much he had seen. That, and his eyes … those pale eyes were burning.

The Thief King leaned back, his lazy smirk stretching his lips again. He gestured to the fire. "Come – sit with us."

Marik tensed. He could sense all the others watching him. "I prefer to stand."

"Oh?" The Thief King arched a brow. "Brave indeed. Usually, when I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed without question."

Marik's eyes narrowed. "I'm not one of your disgusting slaves."

The Thief King raised both eyebrows at that, but the indignant splutters of the others around the fire spoke louder than he ever could. One of the men that Marik didn't recognise gestured wildly, his tone affronted. "We are not his slaves!"

"Yeah, and we aren't disgusting neither." Seti gave Marik a stern shake from where he still held his elbow, and then shoved him down to the ground. "Chief tells you to sit, you sit. Got it?"

Marik stumbled to the ground with a wince. His legs still felt shaky and cramped from his night under the rock, his wrists burning and aching, and his head was throbbing. He shook out his hair, grimacing when his wet, filthy robes clung to him. The sand stuck to his legs.

The Thief King was still watching him; Marik could hear the amusement in his voice. "You're hardly going to stay clean in _that_."

Marik flicked him a glance. He had wound up sitting directly opposite the Thief King, with only the burnt remains of the fire separating them. The Thief's hood was down, revealing his pale white hair, a colour that Marik had only read about up to this point. The red of his cloak accentuated the darkness of his skin, and that only made his hair and eyes stand out more. Marik swore he had never seen eyes like the Thief King's before – pale grey, almost violet, and burning with a hot inner rage.

Without warning, the Thief King leaned over the spitting embers of the fire to finger the sleeve of Marik's robe. "This is filthy."

Marik pulled back instinctively. The Thief King's fingers slid over his wrist as he pulled away and Marik flinched, grimacing at the pain that shot through his swollen skin. His wrists ached and throbbed, but he hid all trace of the pain as he glared at his captor. "I don't exactly have much of a wardrobe with me."

The Thief King's lips twitched. "I'm sure I can fix that." He clicked his fingers at Menes, who instantly got to his feet and disappeared into a tent. Marik watched him go with a slight frown. That one still looked like he belonged more in a library, or a school, than out here in the desert with the _Thief King_ , of all people.

Menes soon returned with a new robe slung over his shoulder. It was coloured a deep purple, a rich colour that Marik had only ever seen members of the Court wear before, or the flitting courtiers in the Palace. It was a fine colour, and the material looked soft. He took to it immediately.

The Thief King caught his look. He smirked, reaching for the cloth and taking it from Menes. He got to his feet and handed it to Marik with a formal bow. "Stolen from the very best, for the little tombkeeper."

Marik's eyes widened. He leaned away from it, revulsion on his face. "…You stole it?"

"I steal everything," the Thief King responded lazily. He dropped the purple cloth into Marik's lap before sitting back down and leaning back on his palms, regarding Marik with a guarded stare. "And you'd do well to get accustomed to it."

Marik's eyes hardened. He never wanted to associate with thieves, particularly _tombrobbers_ , but he was painfully aware that he had to tread carefully here if he was going to keep his life for long enough to escape that night. So he stared down at the purple cloth in his lap, running his fingers tentatively through the smooth material. It was soft against his skin, deliciously clean, and flowed appealingly across the sand. And the colour was so rich…

His face set and he picked it up, holding it to his chest as he fixed the Thief King with a hard stare. "Alright."

The Thief King's expression remained impassive, but he did give an approving nod. "Change in one of the tents."

Marik got to his feet and glanced around, ignoring the stares of the other men no matter how much his skin itched. He ducked inside the nearest tent, ensuring he was completely out of sight before he stripped.

Bakura watched him go with keen interest. He was intrigued by this rogue tombkeeper – for a rogue he must be, to be above ground and then forced into exile. He wanted the full story. The recognition in the boy's eyes when he had seen Bakura's red cloak was telling, and he was sure he knew something of the dead body in the tomb. But could this boy honestly have had something to do with it? He was tall, yes, but slight, and young for a tombkeeper. Bakura could feel curiosity itching away at him.

When Marik returned, the purple robe was wrapped tight around his form. It hung down to his feet, a little big for him, but Bakura would hazard a guess that he still had some growing to do. Marik's eyes were hard, but in the light and now that he was clean, their vivid violet colour stood out. His blond hair was also a rarity, its brilliant colour only visible after it had been washed.

Marik could sense all the eyes on him again and he shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. He sat down uninvited this time, his eyes flicking left-to-right.

The Thief King leaned back on his elbows, the picture of relaxation. He fixed Marik with a pure grey stare. "Alright, little tombkeeper. Time to answer some questions."

Marik's expression remained hard. "I told you, you aren't getting any information out of me."

"Hardly fair," the Thief King answered silkily, "After all the good treatment you've had so far."

Marik glared. Good treatment? He was joking, wasn't he? That oasis had provided him with the worst wash he'd ever had in his life, and his wrists and body were still burning with pain. That wasn't directly the Thief King's fault, but with the lack of another target, Marik was more than willing to push everything onto him. He hissed. "This is the worst treatment I've ever had in my life."

Bakura lifted a brow, his face crinkling with amusement. "Indeed? How has my hospitality failed you?"

"The oasis is filthy," Marik snapped, "And I don't appreciate being dragged around against my will."

The Thief King's eyes were dancing with amusement. "It's life in the desert, little tombkeeper."

"Don't call me that," Marik flared. He wasn't little, and he could hardly be called a tombkeeper anymore. Not after everything he'd done.

Bakura's dangerous smirk was back. "I'll be more than willing to call you by your name, once you tell me what it is."

Marik bit his lip. His thoughts raced for a moment, considering the options – his name wouldn't really give the Thief King any power over him, and Marik had no way to win in any kind of fight. Better to wait it out until they were sleeping, and then try and get away. He pursed his lips. "…My name's Marik."

"Marik?" The Thief King's expression shifted into one of interest, before his usual amusement glittered back in his eyes again. "Like _Malik,_ meaning 'king'?"

A snort came from one of the other men. "You're not a king around here."

"I never was, either," Marik muttered sullenly. "My Father had an odd sense of pride."

"Clearly." The Thief King arched a brow at him, and the smirk was back on his face. Marik watched with odd fascination as the scar on his right cheek flexed with his movements. The Thief King held his gaze for another moment before he cast an airy arm around the other members of the group. "And I suppose it's only fair for you to know your captors, Marik. You met Seti before."

The tall, thin man with the dark hair and pale eyes who had accompanied Marik to the oasis tipped him a mock-salute.

"And the man over there who looks big enough to crack a crocodile's skull, that's Thut."

Marik followed the Thief King's finger to see a huge, thickset man with arms as wide as Marik's legs. His skin was dark, like the Thief King's, and his eyes were small and narrowed. Marik made a mental note not to get in his way.

"Menes you met out in the desert."

The small, young one with light brown hair and glasses sent Marik a reassuring smile.

"Then there's Anen, and Ibebi."

Anen was clearly the oldest, with his dark hair greying a little and his face a little creased. He smiled at Marik, but Ibebi, the other one, frowned at him. He had dark hair cropped short and dark eyes that peered at Marik with mistrust.

Marik glanced at them all before his gaze settled back on the Thief King. "And you?"

The Thief King arched a brow. "Me?"

"What am I to call you?"

He smirked. "In case you hadn't worked it out yet, I am the Thief King."

"I know," Marik responded irritably, "But don't you have a name?"

"Not one you need to know." The Thief King got suddenly to his feet, his red cloak flaring around his ankles. "Ibebi, see to his wrists. Anen, with me."

"Where are you going?" The question left Marik's lips before he realised he had spoken. He winced inside, hating how much he sounded like a desperate housewife, before he squared his shoulders and glared at the Thief King.

The Thief King turned his head, glancing down at Marik in surprise. Then, amusement quirked at his lips. "Going to miss me, little tombkeeper?"

"I told you not to call me that," Marik muttered. He glared down at the ground, embarrassment colouring his tone.

"Well, not to worry, I'll be back by your side before too long." The Thief King's amused chuckle rumbled through the camp, accompanied by his footsteps as he and Anen moved away towards the horses. Soon after, the thunder of hooves echoed across the desert.

Ibebi approached Marik, and the frown that had been covering his features was gone. Instead, his dark eyes were cool as he moved to sit beside Marik. "Show me your wrists."

Marik's tone turned suspicious. "Why?"

"Because the Thief King told me to see to your wounds," Ibebi responded patiently, "And unlike you, I am not in the habit of disobeying him."

"…Oh." Marik kept silent, deliberating, before he held his wrists out.

Ibebi leaned closer, inspecting Marik's swollen wrists. They were red and inflamed, a little cut, and they ached dully. He delicately skimmed his fingers across Marik's wounds, noting the sensitive spots, and nodded his head, satisfied. "Nothing's broken. A little salve and bandages will fix them up. Wait here."

Marik, for once, didn't argue. He kept his seat by the fire, watching as Ibebi rose and moved towards one of the tents. The rest of the men were still staring at him. Marik glared back.

Seti gave a low, hooting chuckle. "This one's got a bit of an attitude on him."

"Shut up," Marik muttered sullenly. Fear still twisted in his gut, but it was more irritating now than anything. With the Thief King gone, it could be even easier to slip away by nightfall, if the others were sleeping and he wasn't yet returned.

"You'll fit in well here," Seti snickered in response.

Marik declined to reply. He rubbed at his wrists, glancing out around the desert. Beyond the camp, the sand stretched on endlessly, the sun high in the sky and beating down as ever. Marik could feel the pressure of it against his head. Tentatively, he reached up and found that his new purple robe had a hood. He tugged it over his head gratefully.

"Stop rubbing at your wrists." Ibebi soon returned, announcing his arrival with a low, scolding tone. He crouched in front of Marik and beckoned, his arms full of bandages and a small bottle of ointment. It was cool on Marik's burning wrists as Ibebi coated the wounds carefully. The bandages were soft and Marik had to admit that he felt better when Ibebi had finished. "Get some sleep," he advised. "We may have to move on when the Thief King gets back, and you can't have rested well last night. There's food and water by the fire, too, make sure you have plenty."

Marik nodded slowly. His stomach gave a long, embarrassing growl, and he grimaced as he moved to the fire.

…

Bakura was gone for most of the day, out scouting with Anen. The rest of the thieves spent the day around the camp, or out hunting, and they left Marik largely alone. However, one of them was always watching him, lurking from the corner of the camp, or threateningly running their fingers along the edge of a blade.

Marik got the message. He was staying put.

His fingers itched as he laid on his side, turning his head to stare up at the boundless reaches of the sky. He had never expected to find himself here, in such a predicament, and he found his feelings endlessly mixed on the subject. It was better than being in the tomb – of that, he was absolutely certain, and his smarting back was testament enough – but he was forced to associate with _tombrobbers_. Marik had spent his entire life taught how sinful and terrible they were, their crimes notorious and their souls damned. To become like them was to choose the wicked way. _Well, I've already done that,_ Marik reminded himself bitterly. _I'm damned already. What can a little more sinfulness do?_

And yet, his skin crawled at the prospect of becoming like them. He was wearing treasures stolen from a Pharaoh; the ultimate crime.

He curled up on his side, alternating between napping and staring up at the sky, when the sound of hooves heralded the return of the Thief King. Bakura strode into the camp with Anen by his side, flopping down by the fire easily. He drank a long swig of water, his eyes drifting around his men and settling on the horizontal form of Marik. He smirked. "Ah, have we tired the little tombkeeper out already?"

Marik forced himself to sit upright and fixed the Thief King with a glare. "I told you my name so you _wouldn't_ call me that."

"Ah, but this way is more entertaining." The Thief King's eyes were dancing with amusement as he took in Marik's form. The purple cloak suited him much better, and now he was more awake, his violet eyes were glowing, though the scowl he constantly wore really didn't suit him. Marik shivered under that stare, feeling goosebumps rise along his arms. He refused to let any emotion show on his face, however.

Bakura lifted the water flask to gesture to Marik's hair. "Blond. That's unusual."

"So is white," Marik shot back with a pointed glance to the Thief King.

Bakura's lazy smirk drifted across his lips. "True enough." He took another sip before placing the water flask down, his eyes trained on Marik. "Gold hair, violet eyes. You're quite the treasure, little tombkeeper."

Marik glared back, trying to deny the shiver that shook down his spine. "I am not a possession."

"In my world, everything is a possession," the Thief King answered with an amused smirk. "I've stolen you, after all."

Marik's eyes hardened.

"Stolen you straight out of the grip of exile," the Thief King continued. His eyes were still dancing, and Marik couldn't tell whether he was being serious or just toying with him. He suspected the latter. "Probably out of the Pharaoh's hold, too – he _is_ the only one with the power to exile, correct?"

Marik's face set. _He's fishing for information._ Marik kept his eyes clear, his expression impassive as he fixed the Thief King with a steely gaze. "You tell me."

The Thief King smirked, and Marik got the sudden sense that they were playing a game. "Smart answer."

Marik wondered if he had won that round.

The day wore on, and when it came to evening Thut returned with another hunk of meat slung over his shoulder. At first, Marik was absolutely horrified that the thieves were eating meat – meat straight from the _desert_ , of all places – but after the smell of the cooking met his rumbling stomach, he stopped complaining so much and accepted whatever he was offered. After all, if he was going to escape that evening, then he needed to be as strong as he could.

When sunset arrived, Bakura made an announcement from his place by the fire. "Tomorrow, we break camp. Menes, check your grey tonight, we need her to be able to keep pace, and for the love of all the Gods, _tell_ me if she starts having more problems _straight away_. Got it?"

Menes nodded his head, expression sheepish.

"Good. Thut, you're taking left wing tomorrow, and Seti right. Anen's at the rear. Ibebi, make sure you've gathered all the herbs you need from the oasis before first light, I don't plan to hang about in the morning." Bakura thought for a moment, leaning back and casting his gaze up to the sky. Silence hung, aside from the sighing of the wind through the sand. "…And that's about all I can think of. Rest up, men, we've got a hard day's riding ahead."

Murmurs of assent and a few hearty chuckles sounded from around the campfire. The men started to disappear into their tents. Menes hovered by Bakura for a moment. "Am I on first watch still?"

Bakura sent him a measured glance. "Naa, get your rest. I'll take it."

Menes nodded, but his lips pursed. "Will you be wanting a tent?"

"No."

"Well, it's my fault we're one short…"

"I don't care, Menes. If something comes to visit in the night, I think I'm better suited to deal with it than you, yes?"

Menes grinned ruefully. "When you put it like that…"

"Precisely." Bakura returned his grin with a smirk. "You can weave me a new tent in penance. Got it?"

Menes nodded, stifling a yawn as he turned to head inside.

Marik watched the whole encounter with a frown. He noted that the Thief King hadn't mentioned his name anywhere in his orders, but Marik was not enough of an optimist to think that he was going to be released. No doubt the Thief King just didn't see fit to tell him about his plans. _Well, not for much longer,_ Marik vowed to himself silently. _I'm getting out of here as soon as he's asleep._

"When I said to get some sleep, I meant _all_ my men, little tombkeeper."

Marik turned his head to see the Thief King's eyes dancing at him. His frown deepened. "I don't recall being made _one of your men_."

"No?" The Thief King arched a brow, his low voice vibrant. "Happened earlier today, when you were brought here in chains and I released you."

"That doesn't make me yours."

"I beg to differ." Bakura watched him closely. "The man who frees you is more your owner than the man who chains you."

Marik glared. "How do you work that one out?"

"It's quite simple really. The Pharaoh may have chained you, but you owe him nothing. _Me_ , on the other hand…" the Thief King licked his lips. "I set you free. You owe me your life."

Marik felt a shiver ripple through him at those words. His eyes narrowed. "You've done nothing but taken me captive."

The Thief King arched a brow. "I gave you food and water, clothed you and washed you, and freed you from your shackles. You call that _nothing_?"

"I'm still a prisoner here," Marik shot back, his fingers curling into fists. He wasn't going to let this tombrobber's mind games get to him. Thieves were the enemy; that was the truth, no matter how it might have felt.

The Thief King leaned back on his elbows, his eyes still fixed on Marik. "Not by my doing. I didn't exile you."

"No, you just keep me here," Marik answered bitterly.

"Again, not my doing. If my men hadn't found you, you'd be dead by now."

Marik bristled at the implication of that comment, no matter how true it may have been. He scowled. "I'm not weak."

"No, I doubt that you are," the Thief King agreed, much to Marik's surprise, "But the desert is harsh. No man can survive out here alone."

Was it Marik's imagination, or did he sense some kind of warning behind those words?

When he looked over again, the Thief King was looking back up at the sky. The stark, jagged scar down one side of his face stood out in the faint moonlight, the last crackling embers of the fire reflecting back the burning in his eyes. Marik studied him for a long moment before he rolled over, turning his back. _I'll show him. I'm not staying here; I'll show him I can survive._

"Get some rest, little tombkeeper," the Thief King added softly. Marik heard him shift, and then footsteps crossed the camp. Marik obediently closed his eyes, but he didn't allow sleep to take him.

As soon as it was dark enough, he was getting out of there.

 **I feel like this is a load of filler. I'm sorry. More (better) stuff will come soon~ - Jem**


	6. Chapter 6

**Another update, and finally some more interesting stuff happens (I hope!) Thanks for reading this far, and thanks so much to everyone reviewing this, it honestly makes me so happy ^^ – Jem**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and Marik and Bakura still aren't mine, they're Kazuki Takahashi's**

Marik shot upright as soon as the moon was high in the sky.

It was brighter than he would have liked – the moon was almost full, so sneaking away would be hard – but it also aided him as he crept around the camp to hunt down supplies. The Thief King was on watch, but he had moved away in the direction of the oasis once he thought Marik was asleep. Marik estimated he had maybe ten minutes before he would be back.

Moving as quietly as he could so as to not disturb the sleeping thieves in their tents, Marik tiptoed to the fire and ransacked the rest of the food. He grabbed a sack for himself and filled it, adding bread and fruit and even strips of meat (as much as he detested it, he recognised the need for proper nutrition out here), and then moved to Ibebi's supplies and collected the salve and bandages he had used on his wrists earlier. They were hardly aching now, and as long as he applied the salve daily, then he should be healed in no time.

As Marik turned to survey the rest of the supplies, his eyes rested on the various knives scattered by the fire. He understood that these were the communal weapons – along with them, every thief had at least one blade of his own that never left his side. Marik was sure the Thief King would have at least three on his person at all times. Marik chewed his lip. He had never wanted to be violent, but he was more aware now of what sort of dangers he could meet along the way. He didn't have time to deliberate. With a quick, darting movement, he picked up one of the knives and stashed it away in his robes.

One last check of the camp, and Marik was ready to leave. He slung his sack over his back and moved silently to the edge, away from the oasis. The irony of the fact that he was stealing from thieves did not escape his notice, but he figured that he should be morally sound, considering the items didn't actually belong to the men in the first place. He edged his way out of the camp, glancing out at the vast desert before him. He didn't know which direction to head, only that he should get as far away from the city and the thieves as possible – they had horses, after all, and could catch him easily. Marik had originally wanted to take one of the animals, but the Thief King had gone that way, and he didn't want to risk getting caught.

Unfortunately, Marik needn't have worried.

He had barely made it four steps when a familiar dark voice sounded from behind him. "And where do you think you're going, little tombkeeper?"

Marik froze.

Shit. _Shit_.

The Thief King's voice had sounded from behind him, at least a few steps. Marik threw caution to the winds and ran. He streaked across the desert at breakneck speed, panic quickening his steps and adrenaline sending the blood pumping through his veins. The bag whacked against his back with his every motion but Marik ignored it, putting his head down and running as fast as he could.

He didn't get far before a weight knocked into his back and threw him down to the ground.

Marik spat, swallowing sand. He could feel it sliding down his throat and he choked, winded, trying to get his breath back, but the weight on his back pushed him down into the ground, unrelenting. The Thief King's musky, dangerous scent surrounded him and Marik almost felt his heart stop.

The Thief King hissed into his ear, "Nice try, but you aren't going to get very far."

Marik squirmed, spitting, but the Thief King's hand was suddenly on the back of his throat and _squeezing._ "Stop moving."

Marik went still.

"Much better." The Thief King's tone was almost conversational. He shifted until he was straddling Marik, keeping him firmly face-down in the sand, and picked up the sack with curiosity. "What's this?"

Marik growled.

"If you keep making noises like an animal, I'll throw you out to join them." Bakura opened the sack, peering inside with a thoughtful whistle. "My, my. Brave little tombkeeper, aren't you, to think you can steal from the King of Thieves."

Marik drew in a shuddering breath. His fingers clenched in the sand as he sent every hateful thought he could muster to the thief currently sitting on his back. He was going to die; he knew it. There was no way he'd be able to get away with this.

The Thief King rummaged through the rest of the contents of the sack before he tossed it to the side. He placed his hands on Marik's shoulders and flipped him over, peering into his eyes with a fixed stare. Marik couldn't stop himself from shrieking when his back met with the sand, instant pain flaring down his skin.

The Thief King peered at him closely. "What else did you steal?"

"Nothing!" Marik squeaked.

"Nonsense." The Thief King matter-of-factly dove his hands down into the fabric of Marik's cloak and, just like that, began to search him.

Marik gave an indignant squeak, wriggling when he felt those warm hands moving firmly down his body. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Oh, be still," the Thief King muttered, continuing to search through Marik's cloak. He brushed skin a couple of times until his fingers closed around the blade of the knife. " _Aha_. There we go."

Marik was fuming as he extracted the knife, peering at it, before glancing back down at Marik. Marik's breath froze in his chest. However, rather than looking murderous, or furious, or even a little bit angry, the Thief King looked … expectant. "Now," he said matter-of-factly, "Are you going to do something stupid?"

Marik's eyes narrowed. "My definition of 'stupid' might be a bit different to yours."

The Thief King chuckled at that. Marik felt his insides squirm as he leaned closer, his body warm where it pressed against Marik. The thief's arms rested either side of Marik's head, firmly trapping him against the ground. "Then let me clarify. Are you going to try running off again?"

Marik didn't reply.

The Thief King sighed loudly. "I'm not going to let you up until I have your word."

Marik ground his teeth together, but he kept silent. His fingers itched to reach for the knife, but as if reading his thoughts, the Thief King placed it in the sand, out of reach, and gripped onto Marik's bandaged wrists, holding them down against the ground. "Speak, tombkeeper."

Marik kept silent. His heart was racing as he glared.

The Thief King's light grey eyes were dancing again as he leaned closer still. His silvery hair drifted in front of his face, the jagged scar standing in stark contrast to his dark skin. He was incredibly _warm_ as his chest pressed up against Marik's; Marik could feel him chuckling. "If you keep your silence, I can only assume that you _like_ this position."

Marik's eyes widened, his answer reflexive. " _Hell_ no!"

"Well then," the Thief King smirked lazily from his position above Marik, "Answer my questions, and I'll let you up."

Marik glared daggers at him, his stare as hard as agates.

"Are you going to run off again?"

"No," Marik ground out.

"Ever?" The Thief King pressed, "Or are you going to try leaving again the minute my back is turned?"

Marik kept his silence, but his expression spoke volumes.

The Thief King gave a patient sigh. "Look. I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, I'm probably going to treat you better than anyone else has in your life so far."

"Why should I trust _you_?" Marik spat.

"You shouldn't," answered the Thief King calmly, much to Marik's surprise. "You shouldn't trust anybody."

Marik stared. "Then why in the hell should I believe anything you say?"

"Because unlike them, I'll actually tell you not to trust me."

Marik paused for a second, thrown.

The Thief King gave another sigh, still not moving from his position over Marik. His body was incredibly warm in the cool of the desert night. "With me, you'll have food and water, shelter, and protection. On your own, you'll probably die before the night is out." His expression was as impassive as ever, but there was something burning in his eyes. "It's time to make a choice, because I'm not going to come running after you again."

Marik licked his lips. As much as he hated to admit it, the Thief King had a point; he knew he was ignorant of the desert. His best chance of survival was to stay with the thieves. But…

Marik's face screwed up. "But you're a _tombrobber_."

The Thief King arched a brow. "So?"

"I'm a tomb _keeper_ ," Marik stressed. "I should be your enemy."

"Is that what this is all about?" The Thief King gave a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound echoing loud in Marik's ears. "I don't think you're a tombkeeper anymore, Marik."

Marik's eyes widened a little.

"I think you gave up all right to that title as soon as you left your tomb, if that is indeed what you did." The Thief King's eyes were dancing down at him again, but despite the amusement in his features, his tone was deadly serious. "You're no better than the rest of us."

Marik's blood ran cold at that. He blinked, slowly coming to the horrifying realisation that the Thief King was right. He had broken his oath to the Pharaoh, fled the tomb, and even worse… He was exiled, banished, and abandoned by those he should have been loyal to. Marik screwed his eyes shut. It was true; he was no better than a filthy tombrobber.

"Now," the Thief King spoke softly, "Your word that you won't try and escape."

Marik opened his eyes again to see the Thief King staring straight down at him. He swallowed. At any other time, this position would have terrified him – to have _any_ man above him, trapping him, was strange, never mind the _Thief King_ – but oddly, Marik almost felt calm. He nodded. "You have my word."

"Finally." The Thief King leaned back, climbing agilely off Marik and leaping to his feet. He held out a hand for Marik to take. "For a minute there, I thought I'd have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to camp."

Marik glared, but took the offered hand and struggled back up to his aching legs. His back felt like it was on fire, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. "Like hell."

"Do as I say next time, then." The Thief King glared mildly at him, then gestured down to the sack on the ground. "And see that you return all of that. The others won't take kindly to your thieving attempt."

Marik briefly shuddered at the thought of facing the other thieves if they ever found out he'd stolen from them, although, he reasoned, they couldn't be any worse than the Thief King. Still, he obediently scooped the sack up, and then ducked again to recover the knife from the sand.

Bakura watched with interest as Marik tucked it back into his cloak. "Do you actually know how to use that?"

"What?" Marik blinked at him.

"The knife. Would you know how to use it if I attacked you right now?"

Marik chewed his inner cheek, debating. He had never been formally trained with a blade, but he had wielded one well enough when confronted with his father. _That was panic, though … adrenaline._ He sighed. "No, not really."

The Thief King nodded slowly. "We'll work on that." He turned and led the way back to the camp, motioning for Marik to walk in front of him in case he had the bright idea of trying to escape again. Marik went readily enough. As soon as they were back, he moved quietly to the fire and returned all the items he had taken, placing them with care exactly where he had found them. Bakura noted this attention to detail with approval. He resumed his watch, gesturing for Marik to lie down again. "Actually get some rest this time. I meant what I said – tomorrow will be a hard day."

Marik nodded, for once not arguing with him. He lay down by the fire and closed his eyes, his sandy blond hair falling down around him. Bakura traced his features with his eyes for a moment, noting that when Marik slept, he got a lot more relaxed. His face smoothed out, and Bakura wondered exactly how young he was. Under eighteen, certainly, making him the youngest of his group. Bakura furrowed his brows, concerned, when he felt a sudden flood of desire to _protect_ this boy.

That could be problematic.

…

The thieves rose early, as Marik learned the next morning. It felt like he had barely laid his head down when the Thief King bellowed out to his men, waking them all just as the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon. Of course, Marik's night-time escapade probably hadn't helped his sleeping pattern, either, but Marik didn't want to admit to that. He cracked his eyes open with a groan. It was barely dawn; the sky was still a deep blue, only just beginning to tinge with the first glimpses of sunlight. He could sense the Thief King's eyes watching and laughing at him from a corner, however, so Marik grit his teeth and rolled upright without further complaint.

Thankfully, none of the thieves noted anything amiss amongst their belongings. As they began to pack up the camp, the Thief King suddenly approached Marik and pressed something into his hands. Marik blinked down, surprised, and found himself holding a blade.

"Until I can steal you something better," the Thief King promised him.

Marik arched a brow, lifting the knife to his face. It was short, the handle simple wood, but the blade glistened in the first rays of dawn, poised and obviously sharp. "You trust me with this?"

"You're nowhere _near_ skilled enough to use it on any of us," the Thief King gave a harsh laugh, "And if you get left behind, you need at least _something_ to defend yourself with."

Marik's stomach dropped at that.

The Thief King's grey eyes danced at him. "I'll give you lessons when we stop somewhere more permanent." He turned away before Marik could answer, lifting his hood up to cover his grey-white hair. Marik blinked after him, confused, but stashed the knife away inside his cloak. The Thief King was a complex man, nowhere near as cut-and-dry as the legends would have you believe. Marik was only just beginning to unravel the underlying motives behind him, and he found himself oddly fascinated. After all, despite all his threats, Marik was largely unharmed from his stay here. And they shared their meat and water with him readily enough.

Marik shook his head. This entire situation was confusing.

Once the tents were all packed up, the men moved over to the oasis to gather their horses. The grey mare was Menes', it seemed, and she was looking a lot happier now. Anen turned to the dappled mare, and the other three men had the browns. The huge black stallion was, of course, the Thief King's.

Before mounting, Bakura moved to Menes' side to check on his mare. After giving her a through once-over, he announced himself satisfied that she had rested enough and was now well enough to keep the pace. Menes seemed extremely pleased about that, gently stroking through her mane as he climbed up onto her back.

The others were all mounting, too, whilst Marik just stood there feeling a little stupid. The Thief King approached him with that lazy smirk back at his lips. "Ever ridden before?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Marik shot back, his tone thick with sarcasm, "Riding lessons are such a _huge_ thing in a _tomb_."

The Thief King merely chuckled. "Good thing you're riding with me, then. Come on." He turned his back and strode over to the big black stallion.

Marik stared after him in open-mouthed shock. "You _what_?!"

"Come on, Marik," the Thief King continued patiently. "I hate to leave a man behind."

Marik stared from the Thief King, up to his giant black stallion, and then back to the Thief King. His eyes were wide. "I … I can't…"

A chuckle came from one of the brown horses, and Seti's bright, pale eyes laughed down at him. "Aw, look at that, men, the little tombkeeper's scared."

Marik bunched his fists together as a round of laughter rose from the other thieves. He growled. "I'm not _scared_ , I just…"

"Just what?" The Thief King sent him an amused stare.

Marik glared back, floundering, before he threw his hands into the air and strode over to him. "Oh, whatever."

"Much better." The Thief King chuckled as he moved up beside Marik. "One of these days, you might actually do as I say without argument."

"In your dreams," Marik muttered sullenly.

The Thief King gave another harsh laugh, but didn't reply. He placed his hands on Marik's waist and drew him back, leading to Marik giving a squawk of surprise when he suddenly found himself pressed against the Thief King's chest. Bakura gave a low chuckle, scooping him easily into his arms. "Relax, and hold on."

Marik blinked, barely having time to register those words before the Thief King was vaulting up into the air and landed easily on his stallion's back. Marik gave a very undignified squeak, and prayed that no one other than the Thief King could hear.

The Thief King snorted. "Calm down, and sit straight. You can let go of me now."

Flushing slightly, Marik disentangled his hands from the Thief King's cloak and leaned away. He found himself straddling the black stallion, the Thief King behind him. The horse's deep black mane swayed in front of him, rippling a little in the warm desert air, and his coat was smooth, black, and glossy. Marik touched him experimentally, and felt the warmth radiating from him.

"That's it," the Thief King spoke from behind him, "Let him get accustomed to you, and stay relaxed. If you grab onto him, it'll only make him panic."

Marik nodded slowly. The ground looked far too far away from up here.

"Other than that, all you have to do is sit there. I'll take care of the rest." Without another word, the Thief King leaned forwards, his arms reaching either side of Marik to grip hold of the reins. Marik found himself once again far too close to the Thief King, encircled in his arms and pressed up against his chest. His scent was musky and warm. Marik had to repress a shudder.

Without another word, the Thief King drove his heels into his horse's flanks and set off in a gallop across the desert, his men fanning out behind him. Marik clung onto the horse, too tight at first, gasping at the rocking motion and the way the sand streamed past them. He had never witnessed anything moving this fast. The air rushed past him, whipping his hair around his face, and as he started to adjust to the motion he almost found it … exhilarating. He almost wanted to laugh.

The Thief King noted Marik relaxing, and allowed a small smile to cross his face whilst no one was watching. He leaned in closer, his lips by Marik's ear. "Alright, now it's time you answered some questions."

Marik jumped, startled, before his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Did you get me here just so I can't escape?"

"That might have been part of the appeal, yes." The Thief King's tone was still tinged with amusement, his breath hot against Marik's ear.

Marik rolled his eyes. "I'm still not telling you anything."

"That would be a bad idea," the Thief King advised.

"After you told me not to trust you?"

"That just proves you can trust me more than most."

Marik shook his head, a smile rising unbidden to his lips. "You realise that makes no sense, right?"

The Thief King released a patient sigh. "No one else is within earshot. You have nothing to fear from me, and I don't allow my men to keep secrets."

"Again, I don't recall becoming _yours_ ," Marik shot back.

"Give it time."

Despite himself, Marik felt a small shiver ripple through him at those words. He closed his eyes, hoping that the thief hadn't noticed, but with their close proximity he doubted he could have hidden it.

Bakura leaned a little closer, dropping his eyes from the desert for long enough to take in the back of Marik's golden head. It glistened like a jewel in the sunlight, and Bakura found his fingers itching to touch it, to steal it, to claim it as his own like any other jewel he saw that took his fancy. Instead, he lifted his eyes again to steer his horse across the desert, pounding away from the city. "What's your surname?"

Marik paused for a moment, debating. The likelihood of the Thief King knowing the name _Ishtar_ was small, but there _was_ still a chance – after all, Isis was a member of the Palace Council. He couldn't risk letting slip his connection with the Palace, not when he was surrounded by tombrobbers. So he bit his inner cheek. "I can't tell you that."

The Thief King clicked his tongue. "I don't like that answer."

"Tough shit." Marik looked away, aware that he could be pushing his luck. He would be in even worse trouble if the thief discovered his connection with the Palace, though – he doubted the Thief King would hesitate to use him to get to his sister, and he wasn't quite ready to betray her. Or, of course, he could just kill Marik straight out. Neither one of those outcomes was particularly appealing.

The Thief King growled. "I don't take kindly to being disobeyed."

Marik stayed silent.

Bakura gave a frustrated sigh, but moved on to another question all the same. "You were guarding Aknamkanon's tomb?"

Marik paused again before nodding reluctantly. "Since I was ten."

"And how many years ago was that?"

"Six."

Bakura gave a low whistle. "You're only sixteen."

"Did you think I was older?" Marik almost felt flattered at that, allowing a small smirk to tug at his lips.

Bakura rolled his eyes. "It just makes you the youngest of us."

Marik arched a brow. He had already surmised as much himself, but he decided to take the opportunity to do a little digging. "Really? I'd thought that was you."

There was a surprised silence for a minute, in which Marik quietly congratulated himself on catching the Thief King off-guard, before Bakura snorted. "You thought I was younger than Menes? I'm almost offended."

Marik arched a brow, twisting enough in Bakura's hold to catch sight of the small, glasses-wearing man riding a few paces behind them. He smirked a little. "Ok, maybe not Menes."

"Thank you," the Thief King scoffed, "And for your information, my being younger than the rest of them doesn't change the fact that _they_ follow _me_."

"I noticed," Marik responded dryly. The other thieves' undying loyalty Bakura was evident in their every motion.

"We're getting off-topic." The Thief King leaned in close again, and Marik felt the warmth radiating off him. It was almost nice. "You recognised my cloak, yes?"

Stiffly, Marik nodded.

"Then I'm sure that you've gathered by now that I've been down to the tomb you were supposedly _guarding_ ," Bakura continued easily, "Only, funnily enough, I didn't see you there. Why would that be, I wonder?"

Marik's mouth went dry. He swallowed with difficulty, his tongue feeling thick. _How much did he see, if he went down to the tomb?_ It must have been after Marik left, and Marik hadn't exactly cleaned up after himself. His hands started to tremble.

Bakura noted all this with interest. "Of course, it's a good thing you _weren't_ there," he continued to press, "Or I'd have had to slit your pretty little throat. Even if you do look like a jewel I could keep."

Marik almost spluttered. " _What_?!"

"I would have slit the throat of the other occupant down there, too," Bakura continued conversationally, "Only someone beat me to it."

Marik went totally still. His thoughts started racing, tripping over themselves as his heart began thudding in his throat.

"I wonder who that could have been," Bakura added blandly.

"Alright," Marik snapped, although his voice sounded a little hoarse, "You've made your point."

A low chuckle brushed past Marik's ear. "So? Tell me what happened."

Marik's eyes distanced and he looked down, blond hair falling around him like a shield. He studied the black coat of Bakura's stallion, the way his muscles rippled as he galloped, the way his black mane swayed in the wind. Bakura gripped the reins with a practised ease, barely even having to guide him as they raced through the desert. Marik stared down at the Thief King's hands when he spoke next. "I needed a way out."

"Mm?" Bakura disguised his mounting curiousity behind a hum. He waited, understanding that Marik needed time to unwind, to think through his story before he said more.

 _If_ he said more.

Silence held between them for a long time before Marik released a low sigh. "I didn't plan it … Something happened that meant I had to get out quickly."

"I see." The Thief King was still close, his chest warm against Marik's back. "So you killed him. Who was he?"

Marik's jaw clicked. His hands tightened on the black stallion's coat, a low shudder rippling through him. Images flashed through his mind's eye – of a blade in firelight, leaping shadows, a long, low scream … and a familiar face twisted into fury, shrieking and screaming as it advanced. A hot, burning flush rippled down his back.

Marik closed his eyes and his head drooped a little. "My Father."

If the Thief King was surprised, he didn't show it. Instead, he kept his eyes on Marik, watching as the boy sagged in his seat, his body curling in on itself. What hardships had Marik faced? How was he still able to stride about with the confidence that he had, those violet eyes of his burning? He was filled with rage, Bakura realised slowly, a rage fuelled by fire and hatred much like Bakura's own inner blaze. He felt something stir within him at that thought. Bakura's eyes narrowed, unused to this sensation as he stared at the back of Marik's golden head, and all he wanted was to _protect_ him.

Marik straightened his back after a while, unaware of the thief's eyes watching him, and turned his gaze out to the desert. They had made good time, travelling a fair distance, but to Marik it all looked the same. Sun and sand, everywhere he looked, no matter which direction. No landmarks except the ever-shifting dunes; no shelter from the blazing sun. He gave a soft shiver, feeling his sweat crisp on his skin.

To his surprise, he felt a warm hand grasp the back of his robe. The Thief King pulled Marik's hood up over his head, covering that blond hair. Marik blinked, but gratefully retreated within the shadows, murmuring a thanks.

The Thief King grunted in response.

They were silent a while longer until Bakura spoke again, suddenly and unbidden. "It's a good job you killed him. Saved me having to sharpen my knife."

Marik sat in stunned silence for a moment before a low chuckle escaped his lips. The chuckle turned into a snicker, and then a full-throated laugh as he threw his head back and grinned at the sky. Bakura watched that grin with clear eyes, and again felt something foreign stir in his stomach. Marik's laughter was infectious, and warm, and it made his violet eyes glow brightly. Bakura found he liked that look.

He liked that look a lot.

In fact, he liked it so much that he might actively try to make it appear on Marik's face again.

 **There's another chapter. I hope you like it – at least there are vague hints of citronshipping now xD I'm actually having to go away for the next couple of days, so look out for an update Sunday-ish. Thanks so much for reading this far! - Jem**


	7. Chapter 7

**Here we go again. Thanks so much for sticking with me this far, especially to you reviewers, I really appreciate your kind words ^_^ I quite like this chapter, hope you do too! – Jem**

 **Warning: detailed description of scarring**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or Marik and Bakura**

They rode long and hard for the next three days.

During the sunlit hours, they galloped across the sand on horseback, fanning out across the desert as fast as they could. The goal was to put as much distance between themselves and the city as possible – so soon after a raid, it would be reckless to stay nearby. Marik still rode with the Thief King. They shared a few odd conversations, sometimes riding in silence, and it wasn't uncommon for Marik to find his lids growing heavy as they rode. The rocking of the horse was a gentle, lulling motion that sent him to sleep far too easily.

On the third day, this happened a lot more frequently, as the Thief King kept them riding long into the night. The sun had dipped below the horizon several hours ago, but still the thieves rode on, cutting a sharp wedge through the desert. Bakura's eyes were hard, strong, and determined. They were almost far enough from the Palace to set up a more permanent camp, which was his ultimate goal.

Marik lulled again in front of him, head nodding, only Bakura's arms keeping him in place. Bakura lifted an amused brow. "You're making quite the habit of falling asleep on me."

The words had their desired effect; Marik instantly started awake, shooting upright. He blinked, taking a minute or two to gather himself before snapping back a retort. "I am not."

"This is the sixth time today," the Thief King chuckled.

Marik made a face, but he couldn't deny the truth of those words. He stifled a yawn, glancing back over the Thief King's arms to see the other men fanning out to either side of them, still riding heavily despite the darkness of the sky. He sniffed. "It's your fault for keeping us travelling."

"We need to make a more permanent camp," Bakura shrugged.

"You're a slave-driver."

"Are you only just noticing that?"

Marik snorted despite himself. He stretched a little, yawning again, and glanced out across the desert. It was whitewashed at night, the moon painting everything silver. It matched the colour of the Thief King's hair, Marik noticed idly as he rubbed the back of his hand over his eye. His wrists were still bandaged, but they hardly pained him now – they would be healed in another couple of days.

The night air of the desert was cool, spreading goosebumps down Marik's arms. He shivered a little, wrapping himself up in his cloak and curling closer to the horse's warm coat, watching as the great black stallion's muscles rippled. Marik had grown quite attached to the horse over the last few days, and he was no longer afraid when he was lifted up to his back.

Suddenly, something warm wrapped around Marik's sides, and he was dragged backwards. His eyes widened and he squeaked, wriggling, until he realised that the Thief King had wrapped his own red cloak around Marik's body, too.

A low chuckle hit his ear. "You make such interesting noises."

Marik glared. "Perhaps if you gave me some warning, I wouldn't."

"Now where's the fun in that?" The Thief King's chest rumbled against Marik's back, sending warmth rippling through his body. Marik felt even hotter when he realised quite how _close_ they were. His back was pressed firmly against Bakura's chest, his front enclosed within the loose opening of Bakura's red cloak. The thief's arms were wound around him, holding the reins in a loose grip and enclosing Marik in a circle of warmth.

Marik shuddered a little. "…What are you doing?"

"Hm?"

"…You've basically trapped me."

"Oh, that." Bakura kept his gaze fixed on the desert. There was no trace of tiredness in his voice or his face, and his body was as lean and powerful as ever. "You looked cold."

Marik blinked at that. He could feel the thud of the thief's heartbeat from behind him, smell his overpowering musky scent, and he felt another shiver slip down his spine, accompanied by a tug low in his stomach. He screwed his eyes shut. _Not a good idea. Keep focused._ In an effort to flip the conversation away from himself, Marik managed a smirk. "Do you cuddle everyone who 'looks cold'?"

Much to his surprise, the thief remained unperturbed. Instead, he snickered, "Only the pretty ones."

Well. Marik hadn't been expecting that answer. He blinked, shaking his head, and had to remind himself that this was the _Thief King_ sitting behind him and it probably definitely wasn't a good idea to read too much into things. _He's messing with me. He's messing with me … and it's damn well working, too._

Another low chuckle breezed past Marik's ear. "Is it bothering you?"

"No." Marik's attempt to sound sincere was ruined a little by the croak to his voice.

The Thief King hummed. "Then there's no need to make such a fuss, is there?"

"I guess not." Marik fumed inwardly. He could hear the amusement in the Thief King's voice. Marik was still feeling highly uncomfortable without being exactly sure why. After all, there was nothing more going on here – they were just travelling together, and the Thief King was being practical. So why did his stomach keep jumping every time the thief leaned closer?

They travelled like that for another hour at most until Bakura finally called a halt. He held his hand up, skidding his stallion to a stop as his men reared around him, coming to a stop in the middle of the desert. Bakura disentangled himself from Marik and jumped down, glancing around with a satisfied smirk. "Yes. Here."

The men instantly set about watering the horses and setting up camp. Thut and Anen went to hunt, whilst Menes started up a fire, and Seti and Ibebi started constructing the tents. It didn't take long for them to have a merry meal roasting. Marik still wrinkled his nose at the sight of the meat, but he didn't want to make a fuss in front of the other thieves when he knew they would likely just make fun of him.

Later that night, as Marik lay down facing the last embers of the burning fire, he wondered just when he had grown so comfortable around the thieves. Although he was still on his guard, he no longer felt fear clench his gut whenever he saw them, or panic grip his thoughts when they stared at him too long. He wouldn't go so far as to count them _friends_ , but there was something warm to their rough camaraderie. Marik closed his eyes and settled into sleep without fear of being stabbed in the back.

 _"And now, we enter the most sacred rite of the tombkeepers."_

 _Marik swallowed. He already felt claustrophobic; this room was made of nothing but leaping shadows. "What are we doing here, Father?"_

 _"It's time for your Initiation." With that, his Father's hands landed on Marik's shoulders and gave him a push towards the table._

 _Marik reacted instantly, twisting out of his grip with a confused, shocked stare. "What are you talking about?"_

 _"The sacred rite of the tombkeepers," his Father intoned slowly. "The Initiation ceremony. It's your time."_

 _"No!" Marik's eyes narrowed. He had read about such ceremonies before, in his history books, but as far as he knew the barbaric practices had been outlawed long ago. He eyed the knife in his Father's hand with trepidation. "I was told…"_

 _"You were not yet ready for the truth." His Father lifted the knife high in the air, its blade glinting in the candlelight. "Now, you have come of age, and it is time for your Initiation."_

 _"No!" Marik's shout turned into a scream as his Father advanced on him. The candlelight jumped, sending violent shadows shooting jaggedly up the walls in the airless atmosphere of the tomb. Fear and blind panic gripped him, forcing him to act on instinct, his feet carrying him as far away as he could get, but the figure was following him with that ever-present glint of the knife…_

 _Marik tore down the corridors as fast as he could, twisting and turning in a mad rush of panic. He could still hear the footsteps behind him. Marik panted in the absolute darkness, fingers brushing past the dusty stone walls as he kept going. There was no air down here, no possible way of escape … unless he could find his way to the surface…_

 _He span around only to find his Father blocking he passage. The lamp swung from his hand, the knife glinting in his grip. His gaze was stern and hard as he stared at his son, and Marik knew that look all too well. It was the look he saw before he was beaten._

 _"Marik, calm down," his Father spoke solemnly. "You knew this day would come."_

 _"No," Marik snapped with a shake of his head. "You told me the Initiations were stopped years ago!"_

 _"You were too young for the truth then. Now you are sixteen; in two years you will be a full tombkeeper. You need to be prepared."_

 _"Not like this," Marik spat._

 _"It is the only way."_

 _"You haven't done it!"_

 _His Father looked at him calmly, and Marik felt a horrible weight sink to the bottom of his stomach. He swallowed. "Father … you haven't … have you?"_

 _His Father held Marik's gaze for another moment. Then, he turned away, placing the lamp down in a corner of the passage. Marik followed the flickering light with his heart in his mouth, his pulse throbbing in his temples. The shadows reared around them as his Father straightened, turned, and loosened the robes around his neck._

 _They dropped down his back to reveal the intricate network of scars._

 _Marik's fingers went slack. He fumbled back a step, and another, and another, his eyes wide and staring and his mind unable to comprehend the horror before him. The pattern was intricate, gorgeous in its awfulness. Each pattern stood out in perfect form, scarred deeply into his Father's back. The wounds had been kept open and pure, everything done exactly as it was listed in the scriptures._

 _Marik felt sick._

 _He turned his head, retching for a moment before he got himself together enough to speak. His hands encircled his stomach, his body doubled over as he stared up at his Father. "What … what have you done…?!"_

 _"It is the tombkeeper's way, Marik." His Father pulled his robes back on with slow, practiced movements, and then crouched to pick up the knife. He turned to face his son, his expression calm. "Now, it is your turn."_

 _Revulsion pooled in Marik's stomach and he retched again, doubling over. His knees hit the dusty stone floor, his eyes watering, as his Father's shadow loomed tall over him, tall and stretching down the tomb. Marik drew in a shuddering breath._

 _"It isn't so bad when it starts, Marik," his Father's voice soothed. "The pain is our honour. To be a tombkeeper is to be a gift."_

 _The knife flashed in the lamplight, and that was when Marik realised his Father wasn't going to stop._

 _And Marik couldn't let this happen._

 _"It will be over in a few days," his Father crooned, leaning down closer to Marik and placing a soft hand in his hair._

 _Marik closed his eyes. His body shuddered, trembling._

 _He waited for his Father to lean closer before he made a lunge for the knife._

 _The look of shock on his Father's face was what stuck out in Marik's memory the most. The look of shock, and then the anger, and then the fear that echoed out of his eyes. Marik grabbed for the blade, straightening and knocking his Father back a step. But his Father was tall and strong. He recovered his footing quickly, lunging for Marik. Marik ducked just at the last moment, landing on the ground with a hard thump, but then his Father stood over him again with the knife in his hand._

 _"It's time," his Father hissed, and the sound was more snake than human._

 _The knife ripped down through the air, glinting in the lamplight, but instead of the blade hitting him, the wooden butt crashed against Marik's skull and he blacked out._

 _…_

 _When Marik next woke, he was lying face-down on the table in the Ceremonial Chamber._

 _His blood ran cold._

 _Instantly, Marik started squirming, kicking his hands and feet only to find them bound tightly to the table. His robes were open, leaving him uncovered to the waist, and his back was bared to the musty, humid air of the tomb. Marik felt his flesh crawl and ripple, his back jumping at every turn._

 _He couldn't do this._

 _Panting, he kept up his struggles, desperately ripping at the bonds to his hands and feet. It was all to no avail. He tugged and pulled, desperation flooding through him. The skin of his back already felt cold, as if it was preparing itself, as if it knew it wouldn't be attached to him for much longer. Marik almost choked at the thought. The image of the scars he had seen on his Father's back flooded into his skull, pattern after pattern so carefully ingrained, held open, forced not to heal, but to remain, forever…_

 _Marik have a loud, furious scream, and tugged at his bonds all the harder._

 _The tomb was silent apart from his pants, and pitch dark. Marik had been left without a light. The shadows clung to his lashes like cobwebs, drifting before his face with the silky touch of the night. Marik kept struggling, not ceasing in his movements until the flicker of a lamp cast a deep shadow on the wall opposite him. For a moment, he saw his own shadow, tied helplessly to the tabletop._

 _"Ah. You're awake."_

 _Marik froze. His Father's voice had never sounded so hateful to his ears, and yet it was the same soft tone he had been listening to his entire life. Footsteps crossed the chamber, echoing in Marik's ears louder than his thudding heartbeat. A click of wood and the smell of smoke choked him as the brazier was brought to life._

 _"It is time," his Father intoned softly._

 _Marik twisted his head, too desperate to struggle. He met his Father's gaze with a wide, pleading expression, his blood freezing in his veins and his thoughts scattered with panic. "Father … please…"_

 _"Shh." His Father's tone was gentle – that was the worst thing about it. "It will all be over soon."_

 _"No…"_

 _Marik dared himself to hope when his Father approached, but all he did was place a piece of scented cloth between Marik's teeth._

 _Marik could already feel tears wetting his cheeks._

 _He turned his face back to the wall of the tomb, watching as the shadow of his Father moved behind him, stoking up the heat of the brazier. He just caught the glint of a knife. The darkness leapt about him, pressing against his lids, and Marik screwed his eyes shut and began to struggle again. The reality of the situation was finally starting to sink in. His back twitched._

 _"Be still, my son."_

 _His Father's voice was closer now, sounding from just above him. There was the rustle of parchment somewhere, and then the only sound was the crackle of the flames. Marik bit down hard on the cloth in his mouth, squirming, but then he felt a warm hand splay out on the bared, smooth flesh of his back. Marik screeched around the cloth._

 _"Be still, or it will hurt more."_

 _The hand disappeared, replaced by something cold and sharp that just rested against the skin by his left shoulder blade._

 _Marik froze._

 _"Better." His Father's voice was a low croon through the shadows. "Be still, it will be over soon…"_

 _The spitting of the brazier echoed loud in Marik's ears. His blood rushed through his veins at an impossible pace, thrumming loudly in his ears, loud enough to drown out the sound of the knife spitting in the flames until it was red-hot, or the slow intoning of his Father's deep voice as he approached._

 _Marik felt the first cut as swiftly as a snake darting out with fangs extended._

 _A scream tore through his lips, muffled by the cloth in his mouth, but it didn't stop there. His Father made another cut, and another, until the stench of blood filling the chamber was so cloying that Marik could feel bile hitting the back of his throat. He screamed and writhed, unable to stay still as his back was torn apart. His flesh peeled from his bones, blood bursting from his skin as his heart pounded loudly, rushing through his veins. He screamed around the cloth in his mouth, screamed and screamed until he could take no more and the blackness came rushing up to take him._

"Marik!"

A warm hand shook his shoulder, bringing him back to reality with a shout. Marik startled upright, his fingers clenched in his robes and his heart thudding rapidly in his ears. His throat clenched, his palms sweating. His breath sounded in ragged pants.

The Thief King was staring at him.

Marik stared back for a moment before closing his eyes, bunching his hands into his hair. _The Thief King … that's right, I'm out, I'm at the surface…_ He drew in a shuddering breath, clenching his fists around his blond strands of hair. The memory of his nightmare clung to his lashes. His back pricked with pain, rippling through the scars he could still feel against his skin, and it was all he could to not to shudder. He clenched his hands in his hair, squeezing his eyes tight shut.

"Marik."

Warm hands gripped his bandaged wrists, gently lowering them. "Marik, let go of your hair."

"What?"

"You're pulling it out. Let go."

It took a few moments for those words to register. When they did, Marik blinked, feeling the sharp pain in his scalp for the first time. Slowly, he unclenched his fists and allowed the warm hands to bring his arms down.

When he looked up, the Thief King was looking straight at him. He leaned a little closer. "Are you alright?"

Marik swallowed. He worked some moisture into his mouth, clenching his fists in Bakura's grip as he turned his head away. The nightmare hovered over his mind, so he stared around the desert, reminding himself that he was free. The campfire had burned out, leaving just a pile of ashes. The tents were all around them, containing the (hopefully sleeping) forms of the other thieves. Beyond them, the desert stretched out endlessly, touching the night sky at the horizon and meeting the spattered stars.

"Marik." The Thief King's tone sounded strained. "I won't ask again – are you alright?"

"Yes," Marik managed to croak. He turned his face back to see an undeniable look of relief flit across the Thief King's face, before it settled back into its impassive mask.

The Thief King continued to fix him with an intense grey stare. Marik's face was drawn, his skin leaking silver in the pale light of the moon, and his eyes … those violet eyes were hiding something horrible.

"You don't look it," Bakura stated bluntly.

Marik's lips twitched a little into a wobbly smile. "You still don't believe me?"

"I trust no one, remember."

Marik glanced down again, toying with the sleeve of his robe. "Just a nightmare," he responded lightly, "Nothing to worry about."

The Thief King made a noise a bit like a harrumph. He leaned back and folded his arms across his knees, watching Marik closely from over his close-curled body. Marik felt open under that stare, well aware that he was being analysed.

The Thief King pursed his lips. "So were you nightmaring about your Father?"

Marik flinched automatically, his eyes hardening.

"Or was it the tomb? Or is there something _else_ you're keeping from me?"

Marik kept silent, turning his head down to glare at the sand as his fingers tightened in the hem of his robe.

Bakura sighed, sensing his patience stretch. "I've told you many times that answering my questions is in your best interest."

Marik's lips twitched again and he glanced up, meeting the Thief King's eyes. "And yet, I am unharmed."

The Thief King's eyes narrowed. His silver hair glowed close to white in the moonlight, reflecting back the pale colour of the sand and echoing in the light grey of his eyes. The scar rippled on his white cheek. "You shouldn't nightmare so loud," he spoke abruptly, "You keep disturbing us."

Marik's brow furrowed a little at that. _Keep…? Has this happened more than once?_ He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. The last remnants of the nightmare's images still hung there, but Marik blinked them away with a shake of his head and looked back up at the Thief King. This time, he managed a smirk. "Us? You seem to be the only one here."

"I'm the only one not in a tent."

"True." Marik glanced around the rest of the camp before returning to the Thief King. "Why is that? You're the leader."

The Thief King watched him for a moment before his lazy smirk stretched his lips again. "Precisely."

Marik looked confused.

"I'm the leader," he explained patiently, "So I don't get the tent."

Marik glanced away again, tucking his knees up against his chest. That attitude was the last he expected from the Thief King – after all, no one in the rest of Marik's experience had believed that those under him deserved more. Marik knew; he was usually the underling. He huffed out a low sigh. "That's not how the Pharaoh thinks."

There was a low rustle of clothing. If Marik had looked back to the Thief King, he would have seen a multitude of expressions flitting across his face, from consternation to surprise to a heavy, burning anger that eventually settled into a cold rage. Then, his smirk was back, and he chuckled. "I would not wish to be like the Pharaoh."

Despite the amusement in his tone, Marik caught the raging anger that pulsed just beneath the surface. He whipped his head around in surprise. The Thief King was still looking at him intently, his face a calm, impassive mask, but Marik knew he had heard fury in those words; fury that was lurking just behind the thief's relaxed exterior.

It was a fire he recognised.

Marik worked some moisture into his mouth, daring to ask a question of his own. "What do you have against the Pharaohs?"

The Thief King's lips twitched. "Why do you think I have something against them?"

"You're a _tombrobber_ ," Marik stated as if it was obvious. Nothing but the deepest of hatred could lead a thief to enter such sacred places – even without fear of a curse from the Gods, there were the endless traps and seals and horrors buried deep underground to keep them at bay, as Marik knew all too well.

A low, rumbling chuckle rippled through the Thief King's chest. "Good guess. But," he paused, his light grey gaze trained on Marik, "It seems a little unfair that you question me, without having answered any of mine."

"I have!" Marik answered indignantly.

"Nowhere near enough, little tombkeeper."

"You at least know my name," Marik argued, his violet eyes flaring in the moonlight. "I don't have that much from you."

"Ah, yes, but there is a difference." The Thief King leaned back on his elbows again and cast his gaze easily up to the sky.

"Is there?"

"Oh, yes. I'm the leader; you do as I say."

Marik snorted loudly. Such an arrogant statement could only have come from the Thief King; the sheer narcissism behind it betrayed his own highly elevated opinion of himself. And yet, Marik found himself almost respecting such brazen conceit. It allowed him a glimpse of the young man who could call himself a King, and have others follow him under that title.

Bakura sent Marik a sidelong glance, and he once again felt like a vole being eyed by a jackal, sized up as tasty prey. The Thief King soon broke the silence. "Sleep, tombkeeper. It's a long while till morning yet."

Marik pursed his lips. He didn't want to sleep again yet – he could sense the memories lurking in the shadows of his skull, just waiting for him to sink into the darkness again so they could plunder him with fire and fear. He jerked.

Bakura was still watching him. The blond boy looked tired, with dark circles weighing under his eyes and sleep crusting at the corner of his vision, but his face was also set with determination and his lips were drawn into a thin, hard line. Bakura recognised that expression. He had worn it himself a thousand times, when he fought to keep the shadows of the night away.

Abruptly, Bakura got to his feet and stretched out a hand for Marik to take. "Come here."

Marik arched a brow and stayed put. "Why?"

"Just get over here."

"I want to know what you're going to do first."

The Thief King raised his eyes heavenward. "One of these days, you're just going to do as I ask without kicking up a fuss." He bent down and grasped Marik's bandaged wrist, tugging him upright. Marik gave a surprised squeak, but managed to get his feet under him in time to avoid crashing heavily against the Thief King. Bakura merely snorted at him before turning and tugging him over to the edge of the camp.

Marik wrenched himself free, glaring. "I can walk for myself."

"Then get a move on." The Thief King strode on ahead of Marik, his paces long and silent as the sand. He barely even left footprints. Marik could see why it was so difficult to track him, and he didn't have any difficulty in believing that this was the man who had been causing the Pharaoh and the court such trouble for the past decade.

Once they were quite some distance from the camp – though still just within sight – Bakura halted. He span to face Marik, and the look on his face wasn't something Marik recognised. The thief looked cold, calculating, his grey eyes keen and gleaming in the pale moonlight. His hood was down, his red cloak billowing about him in the slight desert breeze, and his cropped silver-white hair hung raggedly down to his shoulders. He blended in so easily with the desert that, had Marik not known he was there, he would have mistaken him for a shadow.

Without warning, the Thief King suddenly shrugged off his red robe. It fell about his heels, but before Marik could question what he was doing, sand kicked up around them as the Thief King charged and knocked Marik over onto his back.

Marik landed heavily on the sand with a muffled squeak, his mind reeling at the weight atop him, until there was the sound of something sliding and then a cold, hard metal was pressed up against his throat.

Marik froze.

The Thief King's grey eyes were only just visible in front of him, staring seriously down from somewhere in the air above him. His voice was a low hiss in the achingly quiet desert. "And now, you would be dead."

Marik blinked, working moisture into his mouth. "What?"

"Your enemies won't hesitate, and nor will your adversaries." The Thief King's tone was low and cutting, edged like the blade he held tight to Marik's throat. "You must _always_ be on your guard. When you eat, when you sleep, when you rise, and when you ride – you must always be watching."

Marik wet his lips.

"I will not always be there to protect you," the Thief King growled lowly, "And nor will I always be minded too. After all, I may be the one trying to attack you." He vaulted off Marik suddenly, crouching in the desert night with the blade brandished before him. He beckoned Marik up.

Marik sat up slowly. His heart was still thudding in his chest, ricocheting against his ribcage as he stared straight up at the Thief King, and his back was burning with bright spots of pain. From his place on the ground, the thief towered over him, wearing nothing but his slim purple waistcloth and a set, dangerous expression. His grey eyes glinted like the blade of his knife. _This must be the last face his victims see before he kills them._ For there was no doubt in Marik's mind that the Thief King had killed before – not when he had those reflexes.

The Thief King watched his every movement as Marik got slowly to his feet. He was hardly upright, however, before Bakura flew at him again and Marik once again found himself on his back. He coughed, almost screaming at the pain, but the blade was at his throat before a second was out.

"Dead," the Thief King said simply.

Marik swallowed, his eyes narrowing. "If you actually gave me a chance to get on my feet…"

"Your enemies won't." The thief's eyes were gleaming in the moonlight, his tone dark and stern. He charged again, but this time Marik leaped out of the way, stumbling back. Bakura turned and charged for him again, not giving him enough time to recover, and Marik was once more knocked to the floor, mercifully on his front this time.

This time, when Marik got to his feet, his eyes were burning with anger.

He met each of Bakura's charges with a firm glare, dodging and feinting and even fighting back when he could get the chance. He always ended up on the floor, but the time he spent on his feet grew longer with each spar. The Thief King changed his tactics, going from straight-up charges to stealth attacks from behind, and once even picking Marik up by the scruff of his neck and throwing him bodily to the ground. Marik's chest and his pride were smarting from that one, but still he got back up.

After a while of this, Bakura held up a hand. "Do you still have the blade I gave you?"

Marik nodded, only just remembering. He reached inside his cloak and drew it out, inspecting its rough wooden handle and sharp, keen blade.

"You should have drawn it earlier," the Thief King observed, "Could have stopped me killing you a few times."

"I think you'd win regardless," Marik responded bitterly. His pride smarted, but it was painfully obvious that he was utterly outmatched.

A low chuckle escaped the thief's lips. "Be that as it may, you should still try." He dropped into a crouch again, gesturing for Marik to come closer. "I only want you using it for sparring, though – and not against anyone but me."

Marik nodded once.

"Good. Now, attack me."

Marik arched a brow, glancing over at the thief's apparently unprotected body. He still had his own knife in one hand, though, and his bared muscles were rippling underneath his dark skin. This whole encounter had taught Marik that, despite his skinny frame, the Thief King's strength was immense. He had no doubt that the minute he got close, the thief would floor him again.

But he was going to try.

Clutching the knife in his right hand, Marik leapt towards the Thief King with his blade outstretched. The thief, however, predicted his every movement and dodged, one hand closing around Marik's knife-wielding elbow. Marik squawked, surprised, but the thief pressed a foot into the back of his knee, sending him sprawling over in the sand. The thief leapt on top of him, holding him down into the ground, and pressed his own blade to Marik's neck. "And dead."

Marik glared. "I was close that time."

"Not even a bit, I'm afraid," the thief gave a low chuckle.

Marik's eyes hardened. He gave Bakura a shove, and the Thief King allowed it, sitting up so that Marik could stand again. Marik brushed down his purple robe and recovered his knife from the sand. "Show me what I'm doing wrong," he demanded.

A catlike smirk lit the Thief King's face. He moved up behind Marik, taking the boy's elbow and lowering it. "You're too stiff, for one. Relax with the blade." He bent and adjusted Marik's footing, warm hands against Marik's ankles for a moment before he straightened again. He pressed against Marik's back, running his fingers up Marik's arm until he reached his hand, where he adjusted his grip on the knife. "There, like that. And crouch – you're still too stiff. You have to lean into the sand."

Marik swallowed. He tried very hard to ignore the warmth of the thief behind him, instead focusing on his words as he struggled to obey them. He bent his knees, sinking into a crouch like the one he had seen the thief using earlier.

Bakura gave a small grunt of approval. "Better." He moved around to face Marik again, and Marik could feel his face warming when he realised that Bakura was still only wearing his waistcloth. If the thief noticed, he didn't comment, his eyes still hard as he beckoned Marik forwards. "Again."

Marik charged again, and managed to keep his balance better this time, though he still ended up on his back with Bakura's blade at his throat. They sparred until the first streaks of dawn began to paint the sky a faint red, the stars dying in the bleeding light and the sand beginning to turn warm beneath their feet. Bakura floored Marik one more time before getting to his feet and retrieving his cloak from the floor, sliding his blade back inside. "Enough for today. You'll need to keep practicing."

"I'd have appreciated some warning," Marik panted in return. He was breathing heavily as he placed his blade back in his cloak, his body aching and smarting in places he didn't even know he had. He was going to be sore for days after this.

The Thief King merely chuckled. "Be thankful it was just me you were facing; at least I was giving you time to recover."

"You call that time?!"

"Indeed." The Thief King tugged his hood up over his head as the sun began to burn down at them again, already warm at this early hour. "If I was truly your enemy, you'd be dead twenty times over by now."

"Felt more like fifty," Marik muttered sullenly as he followed the thief back over to the camp. His body felt sticky and cramped, a thin sheen of sweat coating his limbs. His back was on fire.

A low snicker passed the Thief King's lips. "Even more reason to keep practising."

 **Ok, I'm ending this chapter here (even though it's a bit abrupt) because it was reaching mammoth length otherwise xD The next one will be out soon, and apologies if there are typos, I didn't properly check it. I'll read it through again tomorrow and fix it then. Thank you for reading this far! – Jem**


	8. Chapter 8

**And here we go again – this carries on straight from where the last chapter ended. Thanks so much to everyone still reading and reviewing, I really appreciate it ^^ Enjoy! – Jem**

 **Warning for this chapter: bad language and a bit of suggestive teasing**

 **Disclaimer: Marik, Bakura, and Yu-Gi-Oh! belong to Kazuki Takahashi, not me**

They returned to the camp just as the other thieves were beginning to rise. Marik went to wash at the oasis, cleansing himself from the sweat and sand from the night. He took the time to go over his injuries. He was battered and bruised from his sparring with the Thief King, and his scarred back rippled with pain, but otherwise he actually felt a lot better than he had in a long time. Being out in the sunlight so much was gradually darkening his skin, and his hair and eyes glowed brightly in the light. He was still as skinny as a whip, but if these sparring sessions became a more regular thing then he would soon have some muscle to him.

Marik dried off and dressed, returning to the camp to find it mostly empty. Thut and Seti had gone out hunting again, and Ibebi was off collecting some more supplies for his medicines, whatever that meant. The Thief King was with Anen and Menes, their heads together as they crouched near the opening to one of the tents. The Thief King looked over when he heard Marik enter, and he beckoned him over with a lazy smirk. "Just the person, little tombkeeper. Come here."

Marik arched a brow. "I've _told_ you not to call me that."

"I'm not in the habit of taking orders," the thief shrugged easily.

As Marik approached, his brows shot up when he realised exactly what the three of them were doing. In the opening of the tent sat a circle of very large, very full sacks. The glint coming from within them showed something suspiciously like gold.

The Thief King smirked when he saw Marik's expression. "A lot of this should be familiar to you. You're going to help Menes catalogue it today."

"Oh, am I?" Marik arched a brow. It wasn't much of a stretch to assume that those sacks were full of treasure from a tomb – most likely, the tomb that Marik had been guarding until he fled to the surface.

Menes pushed his glasses up his nose and sent Marik a bright smile. "It'll be nice to have someone else who has letters to help me."

Marik shot Menes a keen glance. "You have your letters?"

"Learned them at the School," Menes nodded with a soft smile.

 _School_? Marik wanted to question him further, his curiosity piqued, before the Thief King interrupted by rising smoothly to his feet. "Well, I'll leave you two to get cosy. Anen, with me."

Marik blinked at him. "Where are you going?"

"My, it seems I can't turn around without you following me," the Thief King chuckled, his grey eyes bright and dancing from under his hood. "Miss me, little tombkeeper?"

Marik glared at him and didn't deign to answer. Instead, he spun around and took a seat beside Menes, reaching a hand out to the first of the sacks.

The Thief King's ghostly, dark chuckle echoed from behind him, accompanied by footsteps carrying him away. Soon after, the sound of two sets of hooves thundered across the sand. Marik tried to ignore the slight wriggling of his insides as he turned back to the sacks of gold, peering inside them with slight trepidation sitting low in his gut. The Thief King had been right – this treasure was _extremely_ familiar. Marik had walked passed it a hundred times, and polished it a thousand.

Menes sat cross-legged beside Marik and drew out a roll of parchment. He showed Marik their system for cataloguing their finds. It was really quite simple. A printed list, in neat handwriting, clearly outlined a short description of all the pieces of treasure that the thieves had stolen, accompanied with an estimated value. Marik's brows rose again when he saw the value of some of the objects that had fallen into the possession of the Thief King; the man must be a master tombrobber indeed.

"When we've recorded everything, we take the lists to the markets," Menes explained in his light, airy voice. "It's much safer that way – less chance of us getting caught with the treasure on us, or having some other low-lifes try to steal it." He gave a low chuckle. "Not that the Thief King would ever allow that."

Marik could well believe the truth to those words, especially after his night-time sparring session with the thief. He had absolutely no doubt that the Thief King could take on any enemy he may meet out in the desert.

Marik was given his own roll of parchment, and some ink and a stick, and so he set to cataloguing the treasure with Menes. He knew it all like the back of his hand, so the task was simple and mind-numbingly dull. Much as Marik liked to play with gold, even _he_ could get bored after a few hours.

The sun beat down over their heads, pressing against Marik's skin and burning the back of his neck, but he relished in its power and its warmth and its light. In the tomb, he had dreamed of such a thing – there had never even been a glimpse of sunlight that far beneath the earth. Even the air was different. Deep underground, the air was stuffy and tight, overheated and clingy. Marik had often felt as if he was suffocating in the warm, humid atmosphere. Up here, out in the vast open desert, the air was constantly moving and shifting, sighing through the dunes and rustling their clothes and hair. Marik relished in the sheer _life_ of it.

As they worked at the treasure, Marik shot a sidelong glance at Menes. He couldn't place the young man's accent, or his skin tone, but he would hazard a guess that Menes had come from a wealthy family. After all, glasses were a rarity, and he knew his letters extraordinarily well.

If Menes caught Marik watching him, he didn't comment, instead working methodically through the stash of treasure. He paused when he found one item – a jagged piece with the Eye of Horus intricately wound into its finding. He turned to Marik. "What's this?"

"Hm?" Marik glanced over at it, recognising it almost instantly. "Oh, that. It's part of a jug, but I broke it when I was twelve by accident."

Menes hummed in thought, inspecting it closely. "It was just decoration then?"

Marik nodded distractedly, busy sifting through his own mountain of gold. "I'd say it should go for two gold pieces, though you might get more if you're lucky."

"Oh, I think we should keep it, actually."

"Oh?"

Menes nodded thoughtfully before a bright smile lifted his young, smooth lips. "The Thief King likes the Eye of Horus. He has a stash."

 _Does he now?_ Marik filed away that little piece of information, saving it for later use. The Eye of Horus was a well-known symbol of protection and healing, so he supposed it made sense that the thief would want it nearby, even if he didn't strike Marik as the type of man to be superstitious. The only other place Marik had seen the Eye was on the Millennium Items, but very few people outside the Palace knew about them.

Marik continued to sort through the gold, his eyes glinting at the amount of riches he was handling. He had seen it all many times before, in the tomb, but he'd hardly ever been allowed to touch it. His Father had screamed at him over even the mere suggestion, and when he tried to sneak in to admire the gold, he was told off for greed and sinfulness. " _They belong to the Pharaoh!"_ his Father had roared. " _They are not for us to lust after! Purify your soul, boy, or be damned forever!"_

He was damned now more than ever, Marik thought bitterly. What was tombrobbery after he had committed murder?

With a shake, Marik dragged his mind out of the shadows of his past and back to the gold in his hands. It shone in the sunlight, glistening with the reflected gleam of the sand, matching the blond strands of hair that dripped into Marik's eyes. He brushed them back with a small huff. As he recorded the information about the necklace and matching earrings he currently held, Marik glanced sidelong at Menes, who was working patiently by his side. His script was neat, his parchment covered with numbers in a precise chart. He had to be well-educated.

Marik turned back to his own pile of treasure, thinking to start a casual conversation. "You write very well."

Menes instantly brightened. "Thank you! It's nice to get the chance to practise."

"I can imagine." Marik cast a glance around the camp, noting that they were still alone. "Do any of the others have their letters?"

Menes shook his head, dipping his pointed stick into the ink and scratching out the next description on his chart. "None of them ever had the chance to learn."

"Not even the Thief King?"

"Especially not him." Menes gave a low sigh. "I try to teach bits, but it doesn't come easily this late in life."

Marik nodded slowly. He had been reading since before he learned to walk; it was hard to imagine learning a skill like that from scratch. He placed the necklace down delicately, pausing as he considered which artefact to record next. "When did you learn, then?"

"I was put into the School when I was seven."

"The School?"

Menes nodded, his dark eyes distancing a little. He turned to glance out over the desert, fingers curled around the amulet in his grip. "Attached to the Temple of Ptah."

"Ah." That explained why Marik couldn't place his accent; Ptah's Temple was at Abu Simbel, a long way South of Thebes. Marik had only vaguely heard of the Scribe Schools, knowing they were attached to the Temples and usually led to some sort of life in servitude to the Priests. Marik shuddered at the thought of dedicating your life to someone like Seto. He turned back to Menes. "How did you end up there?"

Menes gave a small, rueful smile. "I'm the sixth son of a noble family," he explained, his tone light. "I had three younger brothers, too, and four sisters … needless to say I didn't have much chance at inheritance, and there were a lot of mouths to feed."

Marik stared at him. That many siblings?! He had heard of such large families, of course – usually down to a man taking multiple wives – but he couldn't imagine there being so many people in one bloodline. His Father had always stressed the importance of keeping hereditary lines pure, and not blemishing them by being overly promiscuous. You had children until you had a son; that was it.

Menes caught his look and his smile widened. "I know," he added gently, "It must be a different world to a tombkeeper like you."

Marik's eyes darkened. "…That probably isn't a bad thing."

"I don't know about that." Menes' dark eyes turned distant again. "It was always obvious that I was never going to be much good in a fight, so my mother pleaded for me to be sent to the School. Father complied, eventually – I think more to get rid of me than anything."

Marik blinked. There was another foreign concept. He had always been taught that a son was the greatest gift a man could have, and they were to be cherished and treated like the treasure they were. Marik's eyes darkened again; apparently, in his Father's case, that included scarring your own child's back. He almost preferred Menes' way.

With a shake of his head, Marik dragged his thoughts back into the light of day. He shot another sidelong glance at Menes – he was clearly young, if a little older than Marik, and he still looked like a noble's son. His glasses were rimmed in gold, his long brown hair was styled and tied at the nape of his neck, and the kohl under his eyes was painstakingly applied every day; a custom Marik had noticed many of the thieves forgoing. Marik gave a small smirk. "…Forgive my rudeness, but I have to ask…"

Menes turned to send him a curious look.

"How did someone like you end up serving the King of Thieves?" Marik gestured to him with a slight chuckle. "…You're noble-born, and if you were at the School…"

"I know." Menes sighed, and his eyes grew distant and pained again. His cheekbones stood out, his skin light and almost frail in the relentless beams of the sun. "I did well at the School, so my family had high hopes for me, but … things do not always go the way we would like."

Marik shot him a keen stare at that. Menes' tone sounded darker, an undercurrent of something cold rippling beneath the surface.

"I was highly favoured by the Masters. The other students were jealous – they spread rumours that the Masters were in the pocket of my father, or were merely marking me up for my good looks." Menes' eyes turned bitter. "The rumours were without foundation, but that didn't stop the students for pushing to get me expelled."

"What?" Marik recoiled a little, dropping the anklet in his hand.

Menes gave a rueful grin. "They were unsuccessful in their attempt. The Masters knew I was hardworking, and they couldn't afford to lose their best student. So the other students set me up instead." Menes' tone grew more strained. "They tricked me into the library late at night, under the pretence that a Master had summoned me to go over a difficult ancient passage. I went, naïve young fool that I was." Menes had a bitter twist to his lips. "As soon as I was inside, they locked the door and took the key. I gathered what they were planning pretty quickly, so I rushed to one of the windows, but one of the students had a makeshift taper. They lit it and threw it into the library with me still inside."

Marik's eyes went round with shock.

"The scrolls caught alight almost immediately." Menes' tone sounded far too matter-of-fact. "It's amazing, how fast old parchment can burn … I was already next to a window, but as I struggled to climb out, one of the shelves toppled on top of my left side." Menes turned to face Marik and tugged at the left-hand sleeve of his robe, revealing the skin of his arm. Marik drew in a rushed breath when he saw the twisting pattern of burns underneath. They were pink, clearly old, but still swirled around his skin with an incredible multitude, travelling all the way up to his shoulder and probably beyond, too.

"Needless to say, I climbed out of the building eventually, half-alight and screaming with pain." Menes glanced down at the treasure, letting his sleeve fall to cover his burns again. "The Masters had been raised. Had one of them not found me, I doubt I would have lived." He sighed softly. "But, live I did. I came around a few days later, only to find that the students had pinned the blame of the fire on me."

Marik's eyes hardened, his fists clenching around the anklet in his grip.

"They said they saw me with an open candle when I was reading there late at night. I was too weak to defend myself, so the Masters had no choice but to expel me." Menes sighed. "I was cast out of the school as soon as I was well enough to walk. My family wouldn't take me in again, not after I was so disgraced, so … I went in search of the Thief King."

Marik's brows shot up at that. "Wait, wait … you actually went _looking_ for him?!"

"Of course," Menes nodded with a mildly surprised glance sent Marik's way.

Marik startled. "But … I mean, _why_?!"

Menes gave a small laugh. "It must seem like insanity to you, but you have to understand – I was severely injured, severely weak, and I had nothing left to lose. I knew of the Thief King's reputation, of course I did, but rather than scaring me it gave me courage. Well," he amended, "It scared me too, and he still terrifies me, but I figured I could do with someone like that fighting my corner."

Marik was openly staring at him. "So, what, you – you just turned up and asked the Thief King to care for you?"

"Pretty much." Menes grinned a little. "To be honest, I think I was half-insane. My burns were still paining me, I had no water or food … I just wandered into the desert and waited for him to find me. And when he did, I offered my services as a letter-writer in exchange for him sheltering me. Luckily for me, he accepted."

Marik shook his head slowly. He could never imagine doing something so brazen; although, he supposed, he had never been in such a helpless situation as Menes.

At least, not in the same way.

"That was over two years ago now," Menes murmured thoughtfully. "I was in my seventeenth year when I was expelled from the School, and my nineteenth has just passed."

Marik blinked, glancing down. _He was older than I am now, then … although I can't imagine age makes such a difference._ Marik sighed. As Menes was almost certainly the youngest of the thieves, then Marik knew he was quite a bit younger than them. _I must be a child to their eyes._

"How did you recover?" Marik asked with interest. Those burns on his skin had looked painful, yes, but they were old and obviously well-healed.

Menes' eyes darkened again. "It took a long time. Thankfully, Ibebi is a skilled healer."

Marik blinked. "Ibebi was with the Thief King two years ago, then?"

"Oh, yes," Menes nodded. "They all were, aside from Seti. He just joined a few months ago."

"Really?" Marik glanced away. Seti, the tall thin man with the joking manner and pale eyes, had seemed so comfortable around the Thief King that he had assumed they'd known each other for a long time.

Menes nodded. "The others have been with the Thief King for a long time … Anen the longest, I think."

"Anen's the one out scouting with him, yes?"

Menes grinned. "Always. He's about twice the age of the rest of us, too."

Marik nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "Speaking of age … the Thief King can't be much older than you. Why do the others follow him so … well, with such loyalty?"

Menes' expression turned thoughtful. He deliberated over his answer for a while, toying with some of the gold in his lap. "…Wouldn't you?" he answered finally.

Marik blinked. "How so?"

"The Thief King … he has kept that title for a reason." Menes glanced down. "He is so driven, so sure in his goals, and yet he takes the time to check on his men. He forces us to use the tents whilst he sleeps under the stars, and he's always the first to enter a tomb or take on a guard or wild jackal that may cross our path. Those sort of actions command respect, and the trust of those who follow him."

"Trust?" Marik's brow quirked at the word. "He told me never to trust anyone."

Menes gave a soft sigh. "He has his quirks like that, as any man does. He himself does not trust easily; that's why he demands to know everything about each and every one of us." Menes glanced away. "He knows all of our secrets, our inner desires and motives, but him … I doubt any of us even know his name."

Marik stirred. He shook his head. "None of you know who he is?"

Menes shook his head. "…Well, Anen more than most," he amended. "He may know the Thief King's story, he's been with him the longest and has his ear the most, but the rest of us? We know nothing."

Marik's eyes distanced at that. In a strange way, it was comforting to learn that he was not the only one that the Thief King hid from, even if it did mean that the man Marik owed his life to was almost a perfect stranger. Even the way he acted seemed like a mask – that lazy smirk of his, and those dancing eyes that hid so much inner fire… "I wonder what led him to be the man he is today," Marik found himself musing out loud.

"As do I," Menes agreed with a dip of his head, "But I doubt we will ever find out."

They continued cataloguing the treasure until the sun dipped ever closer to the horizon, painting the sky with the orange glow of sunset. The first stars began winking out just as Thut and Seti returned from hunting. They had no meat this night, there being little game this far out in the desert, and so they settled to a simple cold meal of a vegetable broth.

Ibebi returned soon after, his sack full of roots and herbs that Marik vaguely recognised the names of from the medicine cabinet in the tomb. He joined them for the remainder of the meal. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the night sky turned pale silver with the moonlight, the thieves retreated into their tents, but Marik did not sleep. Instead, he sat by the remaining embers of the fire, shivering in the freezing desert night, and awaited the Thief King's return.

 _No_ , Marik thought to himself stubbornly, _I'm not waiting for him._ He would never admit to himself that he didn't feel entirely safe out here, alone, when he was accustomed to having the Thief King moving restlessly around the camp at night, out here under the stars. Stubbornly dragging his thoughts away from the dark thief, Marik took to tracing patterns in the warm sand, writing his name out over and over before brushing it out with the palm of his hand.

It was another few hours before the Thief King returned.

The sound of hooves thundering across the desert sounded distant at first, but fast approaching. At first, Marik felt fear clench around his heart, panicked thoughts of brigands or thieves crossing his mind, until he realised that none would dare to enter the area of the Thief King. His fears quelled completely when he saw a great black stallion rearing against the horizon, with a dappled mare by his side.

Anen and the Thief King soon arrived back at the camp. The Thief King sent Marik a jaunty wave, looking as relaxed and energetic as always despite what must have been a long day's riding and the exhaustion that was painfully apparent on Anen's lined, weathered face.

"Did you miss me, little tombkeeper?" The Thief King chuckled as soon as he was within earshot.

Marik merely glared at him over the name, too tired to dig up something worse. "Of, of _course_ , my day is _so_ much brighter now you're back within it, Oh Great King."

The sarcasm dripping from his tone was like a stinging slap, but the Thief King brushed it away with a loud snort. "Such sweet words, my pretty one."

Marik's glare intensified to hide the crazy wriggling of his insides.

Anen looked between the two of them with a slightly arched brow, his gaze questioning, before it settled into a look of dawning realisation. Then, he looked practically smug as he glanced at the Thief King.

Bakura acted as if he hadn't noticed. He plonked himself down by the fire and grabbed for the leftovers of their dinner, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "Is this the best those good-for-nothing slobs could do?"

"They were hunting all day," Marik snapped back without thinking.

The Thief King arched a brow at him.

"And besides," Marik sniffed, "Broth is much better for you than desert meat."

The Thief King snorted again at that. "Tastes a lot worse, too."

"It isn't that bad."

"Perhaps not to your taste, little tombkeeper," the Thief King sent him a sly smirk, his tongue darting out to trace his lips, "But I prefer something more _delectable_."

Marik felt a slow shiver ripple down his spine. The way the Thief King was looking at him was almost _hungry_.

"Stop teasing the boy," Anen spoke up for the first time. He had already quite happily devoured his portion of the broth, and was now reaching for seconds.

"He makes it too easy."

"Or you enjoy it too much, hn?"

"Shut your mouth, Anen."

Marik watched the banter between the two men with something close to interest. Since speaking with Menes earlier, he had realised that these two probably had the closest relationship out of any in this camp, and it would perhaps be possible to see the most of the true Thief King when he was talking with Anen. The Thief King still wore his lazy smirk, however, his hood down to reveal his silver hair glistening in the moonlight. His mask was just as in place as ever.

After they had eaten, Anen excused himself and disappeared inside his tent. Bakura leaned back on his elbows, gnawing on a bone from the previous night as his gaze once again slid back over to Marik. "Aren't you tired from your day of counting gold, pretty one?"

Marik glared again, desperately hoping that wasn't a nickname that was going to stick. He was already far too flustered whenever the Thief King was around; he didn't need any more excuses. He hardened his eyes and folded his arms with a haughty sniff. "Counting gold isn't a very tiring job, thief."

"Good. You'll be doing a lot more of it."

Marik rolled his eyes a little at that. "I'm surprised you don't like handling it yourself."

"Oh, I get plenty of time with it," the Thief King almost purred, "Don't you worry about that."

Marik cast him a slightly suspicious glance, finding his grey eyes dancing again. Menes had mentioned something about him having a stash earlier, but Marik had yet to see any evidence of the Thief King's own treasure, save the rings and bracelets always jingling on his body. He supposed the man must have many secrets. Marik suddenly felt his fingers itch with the undeniable desire to find his collection.

"Menes found something he thought you'd like," Marik added conversationally.

The Thief King arched a brow. "Oh?"

"A design of the Eye of Horus. I didn't think it was worth much, seeing as I broke it, but he seemed to think it was to your taste."

The Thief King cast his eyes heavenward. "You broke something on your first day?"

"What? No," Marik frowned before his eyes cleared with understanding. "Oh, no, I meant I broke it when it was in the tomb. You know, its proper place, before some low-life stole it." He smirked.

The thief sent him a mild glare. "You play a dangerous game in teasing me, Marik."

"You do it to me all the time," Marik shrugged lightly, "Only fair I get some payback."

The Thief King held his gaze for a long moment before he tipped his head back and laughed. "Fair enough, I suppose. Where is this item the good scribe picked out for me?"

"Catalogued away with the rest of the treasure."

"Fetch it for me."

Marik glared. "Fetch it yourself."

The thief gave his usual lazy smirk, his grey eyes dancing as he glanced over at Marik. "I've had a long day riding, whilst you've been sitting around on your backside all day. Never mind you kept me up half the night."

Marik, much to his mortification, could feel his cheeks flushing hotly at the underlying implication of those words. If any of the other thieves were listening right now…?! He held back an indignant squeak, instead managing to choke out, "Be careful how you phrase that!"

The Thief King peered at him closely for a moment before bursting out into another round of chortling laughter. His head was thrown back, his silvery strands of hair spiking up wildly around his head. "Oh, are you worried I'll ruin your reputation?"

Marik glared at him, hiding his fluster behind angry words. "I don't appreciate being the butt of your jokes."

"Oh, relax, little tombkeeper," the Thief King was still chortling, "Nobody thinks we're fucking."

Marik squawked at the bluntness of those words. He stared steadfastly away from the thief, focusing on calming the racing of his heart and the thud of the blood running through his veins.

"Of course, if we _were_ to fuck," Bakura's eyes were dancing again as he looked straight at Marik, "The whole camp would know about it. I like to make my partners _scream_."

Marik spluttered, his eyes shooting wide open. He didn't dare turn to look at the thief, knowing his cheeks must be burning dark brown by now, and frankly he didn't trust himself not to make some other form of embarrassing speech. Instead, he hid his face in his hands. "I want to end this conversation now…!"

"As you wish, my pretty one." The Thief King's laughter was still evident in his tone. "You can distract yourself by fetching me that treasure."

Stiffly, not trusting himself to argue anymore, Marik got to his feet and strode over to the mound of treasure he and Menes had spent the day so carefully sorting through. It didn't take him long to find the small, broken ornament, the Eye of Horus staring watchfully up at him. Marik gave a small shiver.

He turned to the Thief King, finally able to face him with some element of calm, and approached with the Eye held out. The Thief King held out a hand, palm-up, his silver-grey eyes watching Marik with a dancing intensity. Marik dropped the ornament in his hand and turned, making to leave, but to his surprise, a warm hand gripped his wrist.

"Stay here," the Thief King murmured softly.

Marik turned, arching a brow. The thief held the Eye close to his face, examining it with practised hands. He turned it over, pursing his lips. "This has fallen from something – a cup, or bowl, perhaps?"

"A jug, actually," Marik corrected, though he was slightly impressed that the Thief King had placed it so easily. He sank down onto the sand beside him. "I'm surprised you recognised it."

The Thief King snorted. "I've handled a lot of treasure in my time."

"I'm sure." Marik glanced away, expecting the usual shiver of revulsion when he thought of robbing a tomb, but it never came. Instead, he felt a strange sort of thrill. Handling gold was fun, after all, and now he could do as much of that as he liked, with no Father screeching at him about his sinfulness. It was almost … freeing.

"I admit, though, it's pretty broken." The Thief King chortled softly, sending Marik a keen stare. "What did you do to it?"

Marik rolled his eyes. "I was twelve. It smashed."

"Oh?" The Thief King was grinning at him. "Make a habit of destroying priceless artefacts, did you?"

Marik scowled at him.

"Such a rebellious little tombkeeper." The thief tutted, holding the Eye up to the moonlight and watching as the gold glistened palely.

Marik looked away with a low sigh. "You told me I have no right to that title anymore."

"As indeed you don't," the Thief King agreed, "But you still carry it around with you, so I'll keep using it to describe you."

Marik jerked, turning his head to show his surprise. "What?"

"Come now," the thief gestured to him, the lazy smirk stretching across his lips again. "You walk around as if you carry the whole world on your shoulders."

Marik twitched.

"No man ends up with me unless he is desperate, Marik," the thief continued easily. He tossed the Eye up into the air, catching it deftly before sliding it into his cloak. He leaned back on his elbows and gazed up at the star-spun sky. "We all carry our pasts with us. You should learn to spread yours out a little more, or your back will break."

Marik shivered slightly, unnerved. It was easy to forget, with all the thief's lazy joking, that he was clearly a highly intelligent and observant man who knew all of his men's secrets. Marik cast him a serious glance, answering in a low voice, "And what of your past, Thief King? Don't you carry that around with you?"

The thief's face darkened instantly. His grey eyes returned to their burning, the inner fire in his veins spreading and growing in the pale silvery light of the moon. His fingers dug into the sand. "The past will always be with us. It's how we handle it that matters."

Marik blinked, watching him closely. He was positive that this man held a secret – probably a dark one, at that – but he also knew that it would be next to impossible to draw it out. Still, Marik felt curiousity stir within him like a dragon waking to the flames.

He _would_ discover the Thief King's identity. He vowed it silently to himself.

"Get some sleep," the thief stated abruptly.

Marik lifted a brow. "Shouldn't you be doing that?"

The thief sent him a smirk, not a trace of a shadow covering his features anymore. "Are you worried about me, pretty one?"

Marik glared back. "You're the one who's been riding all day, as you said yourself earlier."

"Indeed, but I need little sleep." The thief was gazing back up at the stars again. " _You_ , on the other hand, need your rest."

Marik wrinkled his nose. He didn't want to sleep yet; the treasure had brought back memories, and he could feel the nightmare sitting in his skull, just waiting for him to fall into its clutches. He cast about for something, anything, to delay the inevitable. "…Where did you even go all day?"

The Thief King sent him a measuring look. "Go to sleep."

"Come on, surely you can at least tell me that?"

"As much as I'm pleased you missed me," the thief smirked, amusement colouring his tone, "The intricate details of my scouting mission really aren't as important as your sleep. So, sleep, and now. I'll wake you to spar again later."

Despite himself, Marik grimaced. His body was still aching from the previous night's session, and he didn't much relish the thought of being thrown onto his back again. Even if it did give him another excuse to be close to the Thief King.

He did not just think that.

"Sleep, Marik. You need a few hours' rest at least."

Marik nodded slowly, for once deciding not to argue. He turned back to the fire, putting some distance between himself and the thief as he lay down on the warm sand, cushioning his head with his arm.

The thief threw a blanket at him. "Don't get cold."

"Wasn't planning on it," Marik retorted, but his voice was turning thick with sleep. He closed his eyes, wrapped himself in the blanket, and drifted off a few moments later.

Unbeknownst to him, the Thief King's eyes remained trained on Marik's face for a long time after he slept. Bakura traced the golden hair around Marik's face, the way his youth showed for the only true time in his slumber, and how the curves and planes of his body were accentuated under the blanket. Bakura watched him for a long time, his expression impassive, as the night sky continued to wheel above them.

 **There's a chapter. Aheh. More should be out soon, and sorry there is so much filler at the moment – I have to get them knowing each other a bit better xD thanks so much for reading this far! – Jem**


	9. Chapter 9

**Ok, so this fic is going to be quite a bit over the 10 chapters I originally estimated. I'm not even close to the end yet xD aheh. But still, I quite like this chapter, it's fun (well, to write anyway, and I hope it will be enjoyable to read too), and the citronshipping is getting ever stronger. Thank you so much to the reviewers, I am glad you didn't mind me going into detail about some of the other thieves and their backstories. I promise not to overload you with random information, and I hope it's all interesting xD I hope you enjoy this chapter! – Jem**

 **Disclaimer: The Thief King Bakura, Marik Ishtar, and Yu-Gi-Oh! itself are Kazuki Takahashi's, not mine**

True to his word, the Thief King woke Marik once again in the early hours of the morning to drag him out to spar. He still floored Marik with every pass, and it didn't take long for Marik's body to turn black and blue with bruises and for his back to ache and burn with every step. Marik gritted his sheet and didn't allow even a hint of pain to show on his face. He would not show the thief his greatest weakness, not when he could barely even think of it himself without his mind trying to run away and hide in a darkened corner of his skull. He was still nightmaring every night, but rather than dwell on them, Marik chased away the shadows by charging at the Thief King.

Sometimes, he even managed to get close before he ended up on the ground again.

One such occasion was this. The thief had been coming at him relentlessly for several minutes, continuously attacking no matter how much Marik twisted and dodged, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he lost his footing and fell again. But Marik was determined to keep up for as long as he possibly could. His body had grown leaner with these endless sessions, his stomach more toned and his strength increasing, and so when Bakura came at him again, Marik got a hold on his arm and didn't let go. The thief was forced to turn, his momentum carrying him forward, and Marik, breathless, kicked his knees and sent him sprawling to the ground.

The thief landed on the sand with a grunt.

Marik stared, slight shock covering his features, before they morphed into a grin and he leaped on the thief's back, delicately pressing the tip of his knife against the back of his neck. "Dead?"

The thief twisted his head around to send Marik an approving stare. "Good."

Marik grinned. "I was beginning to doubt if I'd ever beat you."

"Even tombkeepers get lucky sometimes."

"Luck? Pah." Marik lifted his chin arrogantly, his violet eyes sparkling in the moonlight. "I beat you fair and square."

"Only once," the thief advised, though the corners of his lips were threatening to twitch upwards. Marik looked so proud of himself. "Going to let me up?"

"Hm?" Marik glanced back down, only then realising that he was still straddling Bakura's back. He felt a rush of something foreign drop to the bottom of his stomach, his veins filling with fire at the sight of the thief glancing up at him from such a prone position, and quickly clambered off him.

Bakura righted himself easily, making no show of noticing anything amiss about Marik's actions. He recovered his knife and inspected it before glancing back over at Marik, and his grey eyes were dancing again. "You're almost good enough to go scouting."

"What?" Marik blinked over at him, a look of consternation crossing his features.

"A few more rounds like that and I might let you go with Seti."

Marik narrowed his eyes. "Why do I have to do your dirty work for you?!"

"Because you're one of my men now, Marik," the thief looked amused, "And you have to pull your weight."

"Menes never goes scouting!"

"Menes isn't good with a knife."

Marik glared, hiding a slight wriggle of his insides. Was that a disguised compliment? He sniffed, crossing his arms and ignoring the constant smarting of his back.

"Of course, you have to get better at riding first," the thief added thoughtfully.

Marik's glare intensified. "I'm not bad at riding."

The thief snorted. "Please."

"I'm not!"

"You clung to me the entire time we were riding here."

Marik's face flushed a little, though he didn't let a trace of his fluster show in his clipped, frosty tone. " _You_ kept putting your arms around me."

"Because you'd fall off if I didn't." The thief's eyes were dancing at him again, and Marik got the distinct notion that they were once again playing a game.

Marik hid his embarrassment behind a haughty sniff, knowing that thief was in all likelihood correct. " _You_ try learning to ride when you grew up in a tomb."

"And what did you do for the first ten years of your life, hm?" The thief was still smirking at him, his expression lazy and relaxed.

Marik's glare shifted into something darker for a moment and he stared away, avoiding the Thief King's gaze. For all their messy banter and edgy teasing, he knew that if the thief ever found out Marik's true connection to the Palace, he would probably not be spared. From the way the Thief King reacted about the Pharaohs, Marik guessed he held a deep prejudice and revulsion against anything from the Palace. Marik would be included in that group.

After a long moment of silence, in which it became clear that Marik was not going to answer, Bakura heaved a sigh as he bent down and scooped up his red cloak. "One of these days, you will tell me all your secrets."

"Maybe when you tell me all of yours," Marik retorted quietly.

Bakura shot him a keen stare. Marik was a puzzle – the rest of his men had given up their stories readily enough when Bakura first asked them, most of them too shit-scared to do anything otherwise, but there was something different about Marik. A shadow hung over him, covering his eyes and burning in his veins, and Bakura could not for the life of him guess exactly what had happened in the tomb to force Marik to choose exile over life.

But he would find out.

"Come on." Bakura turned and led the way back to the camp, reassured when he heard Marik's footsteps tracing softly in the sand after him.

…

The day saw another scouting mission for Bakura and Anen. Thut was off hunting again, but Seti and Ibebi stayed in the camp, picking through the treasure to see if there was anything they wanted to keep. Marik and Menes continued to catalogue – there was a lot to get through.

Bakura found his thoughts drifting idly to the members of his small band of thieves as he paced easily across the desert on his great black stallion. Each had pledged their loyalty to him, and proven it many times in battle and raids. Between them, they had caused the kingdom a great deal of trouble over the past several years, leaving tales of fear and legends of their mighty deeds in their wake wherever they went. He couldn't help but smirk slightly. His title was well known throughout Egypt now, and his deeds were infamous. He knew he had the Pharaoh running scared. His continuous robberies on the tombs were a slight to his dynasty directly, and showed Bakura's total and utter disregard for the traditions and history of their time. His mouth twisted into an unpleasant sneer. Anything he could do to bring dishonour onto the Pharaoh's family was suitable for him.

As they rode, Anen kept easy pace by his side on his dappled mare. They rode out far into the desert, south today, though they always made sure to keep within travelling distance of the camp. Bakura didn't like spending an unnecessary night out away from the protection that came with the group.

When they were about as far as they would get that day, Bakura lifted his hand, slowing down his stallion. He dismounted easily and glanced about. Not much out in this direction but more desert – shame, he had been hoping to spy some other landmarks, or potentially some game to hunt. But at least in such an empty environment it was also a lot less likely that they would meet other thieves. Bakura did not relish in taking the lives of his own kind, but unless they would follow him, they were competition, and Bakura could not risk that.

Anen dismounted beside him. His calm, deep eyes surveyed the desert with a simple gaze, his cloak rippling around his lean form. "Not much out this way."

"Apparently not," Bakura agreed with a soft grunt.

"Could be worth checking to the east?"

Bakura shook his head. "I don't want to risk getting too near the Palace so soon after raiding a tomb."

"Wise words," Anen nodded, his expression still calm.

"Thank you for your approval," Bakura responded with slight sarcasm, sending Anen his lazy smirk.

Anen returned the look with a chuckle. "Someone needs to make sure you keep talking sense."

"And you're the man for the job, I suppose?"

"Always have been."

"You're lucky I like you." Bakura grunted, placing a hand on his stallion's reins and beginning to lead him forwards. The sun was baking the sky above them, the sand curving and boiling beneath their feet. Bakura could feel the heat burning through his sandals. His sun-dried skin had turned a deep shade of brown, his head firmly covered by the pale hood from the tomb. Bakura was pleased with his cloak; the cloth was light and flowing, breezing about him to keep him cool under the relentless desert sun, and the hood provided decent shelter from the worst of the rays.

They moved on for quite some way, cutting a path to the west, but there was still no sign of life. Bakura's red cloak rippled around him as he glanced around, clicking his tongue.

Anen caught his frustration. "Do you have a plan of action?"

"I know exactly what I _want_ to do," Bakura grouched in return.

"You know better than to rush into something."

"Unfortunately, you are correct." Bakura allowed an impatient sigh to cross past his lips, his eyes narrowed and burning as he surveyed the desert around him. The sand was firm beneath his feet, the sky open and familiar above him. He had lived out here for so long that he felt he could feel the very desert breathing. It swallowed him whole; a part of him.

Anen eyed him closely. "You are still sure?"

"Oh, yes." A cruel smirk lifted the corner of Bakura's mouth. "The Pharaoh will pay."

Anen shook his head, although his tone was almost amused as he cast a glance up at the sky. "I admire your resolve. I would be satisfied with the tombs, myself."

"It isn't enough," Bakura growled.

"No?"

"No." Bakura's face set, his expression darkening. "They took more from me than some petty treasures."

Anen arched a brow. "I've never heard you call them petty before."

"They're nothing more than trinkets," Bakura answered with a harsh laugh, "Nothing compared to what the _Pharaoh_ stole from me. You know that, Anen."

Anen's face clouded. He crossed his arms and pinned Bakura with a keen stare; the same keen stare that had followed the Thief King almost ever since that fateful day of his childhood, when he had lost everything. "Your path is set, then?"

"It is." Bakura's lips thinned, and he didn't turn his eyes away from the desert. His hands clenched into fists by his sides, the only thing betraying his tension and inner blaze. "I will have the Millennium Items, and I will take the Pharaoh's life."

"And then?"

"Then?" Bakura gave another harsh laugh. "Then, I don't give a damn. This country can go to hell for all I care."

"You do not seek to rule?" Anen watched him closely.

Bakura snorted. "You know me better than that, surely." Power had never been Bakura's goal, and nor was it something he sought. His face hardened. "My only goal is to cleanse the earth of the filthy dynasty responsible for creating the abomination of the Items."

Anen kept his silence for a long moment before he dipped his head in a nod. "I can't say I disagree with you."

"I should hope not."

Anen sighed, the warm desert breeze whipping his words away across the sand. "Sometimes I forget that you aren't the little boy I found lost in the desert anymore."

Bakura sent him an amused glance. "I haven't been him for years."

"I am not so sure about that, Bakura." Anen's expression was entirely too searching for the Thief King's liking, and the use of his name sent a ripple down his spine. He so rarely heard it now. "I still see the child in you sometimes."

Bakura allowed his lazy smirk to spread across his face. "Indeed? I'll have to fix that, unless it's the old man in you turning senile."

Anen gave a light laugh. "You said yourself that I am not so old."

"Not old enough to slack on work," the Thief King amended with a wicked grin, "But old enough to be sensitive to jokes."

Anen gave a dramatic sigh. "Ah, you have seen right through me once again." He shook his head. "I admit to feeling my age more since the tombkeeper joined us. The boy is a wisp."

"He's sixteen," Bakura answered without thinking, "And seen much for his age, too."

"Yes?" Anen glanced sidelong at Bakura. "Well, not that I am surprised. To be exiled, he must have done a bad thing indeed, and if the tomb we saw was anything to go by…"

Bakura looked back at him evenly. "You know I am not one to give away another man's secrets."

"But do _you_ know all of his?" Anen pressed.

Bakura glanced away again, a crease appearing in his brow. "I'm working on it." Truth be told, Anen had hit on something that was troubling him. Marik was an enigma, and Bakura couldn't afford to have mysteries so close to him. He needed to know the facts and motives of those who followed him before he could trust them, and life as an outlaw and a thief required total trust from those in his group. They must, by necessity, be close-knit. Marik had yet to learn this.

"Do you think he will trust you? He is a tombkeeper, after all."

Bakura gave a low chuckle. "He thinks he is, at least, but I'm slowly changing his mind."

Anen looked at him closely.

Bakura turned his head to catch that look, and returned it with a sceptical smirk and a lifted brow. "If you have something to say, say it."

Anen chuckled. "I wouldn't dare, o great King."

"Spare me the falsehoods and tell me what's on your mind." Bakura rolled his eyes. He had seen that look on Anen's face far too often before to doubt that he would speak his thoughts.

Anen's expression dropped, his tone becoming serious again. "I've noticed you teasing the tombkeeper. You talk with him a lot."

"He's a new recruit," Bakura answered with a careful look.

"You have yet to give him his own horse, though we passed many villages, and neither of you sleeps in a tent."

"Where exactly are you going with this?"

Anen smiled softly. "Just that you don't seem to mind his company as much as you do the rest of ours. I would almost say that you … have an interest in him."

Bakura drew back a step. He sent Anen a measured stare, grey eyes cool and calculating beneath their constant burning blaze. His tone was careful, if a little dark. "If you were anyone else, I could kill you for that comment."

"For daring to suggest you might have some human emotion left?" Anen gave a gentle smirk. "You are indeed the boy I found in the desert, Bakura."

Bakura could feel himself bristling in response.

"All I'm saying," Anen continued patiently, "Is to take care. He's a tombkeeper; I doubt he's had much experience in the adult world."

Bakura chuckled. "Are you telling me to be careful for my sake, or his?"

"Both, I think." Anen peered at him closely. "You've both seen too much for your age."

Bakura instinctively recoiled at that. Anen was the one person in the world who knew everything that Bakura had been through; the one person who had his greatest weakness. If he hadn't proved himself so trustworthy, Bakura would have killed him long ago for that, and yet he found himself relying on Anen's advice more often than not. The older man had a level head and a clear sense of justice, and he had watched over Bakura as he grew into the Thief King he had become today. Bakura knew he owed him. He also knew that Anen was usually right.

"Alright," Bakura finally relented with a jerk of his head, "You've made your point. I think it's about time we got back to camp, before we lose all the light."

Anen nodded, though his eyes never strayed far from the thief he called King on the journey back to the camp.

…

Marik spent the day surrounded by treasure. Despite his queasiness about the origins of the gold, he couldn't deny that it was pleasant to have uninterrupted access to such a vast amount of priceless jewels and necklaces and pendants and chains. He ran his fingers through the treasure, marvelling in the heat of the gold. _As if it's a living thing,_ he thought, eyeing it closely. _But if it's living, then it has a great story to tell. I wonder if it witnessed everything I did in the tomb?_

At that thought, Marik placed down the bracelet he was currently examining with a slight shudder.

Menes was busily scratching away by his side, and a little way over Seti and Ibebi sat bickering about the treasure that had been catalogued in the days before. They laid uneasy claim to the pieces they took a liking too, keeping a few trinkets each before the rest were prepared to be taken to the markets. At the moment, Seti was clutching an amulet against his chest, staring bitterly at Ibebi. "This one's mine!"

"It does _nothing_ ," Ibebi explained with a flash of his eyes.

"It's an amulet…"

"That doesn't mean _anything_!"

"It might!" Seti glared stubbornly.

"It has _no_ healing properties," Ibebi explained in his sharp voice, "And it _won't_ protect you."

"If it gets rid of the curse…!"

" _You are not cursed_!"

Seti's glower increased and he rounded on Menes, the amulet still clutched tight in his grip. "Tell him!"

"Can't. Busy." Menes didn't even look up.

Seti's dangerous glare then flicked onto Marik, who was watching with interest and something close to trepidation. He still knew next to nothing about the thieves, aside from Menes, and although he was growing to quite enjoy their company, he would never go so far as to say he trusted or understood them. Seti fixed him with a stare. "You tell Ibebi! You must know something about this treasure."

"That amulet?" Marik held his hand out. "Let me have a look."

Seti clutched onto it tightly.

"This is ridiculous," Ibebi fumed. "You're acting completely irrationally."

"Just because _you_ don't believe in magic…"

"I believe in science," Ibebi answered coolly, "And the laws of the land by which we all live."

Seti narrowed his eyes and spat at Ibebi. "That's why you could never go far. Too distracted by a pretty face to see what was right in front of your eyes…"

Ibebi flew at him.

The two of them scuffled on the ground, throwing punches and yelling insults. The amulet clattered out of Seti's grip and rolled across the sand, glinting dully in the bright sunlight. Marik picked it up. He lifted it to his eyes, examining it closely and trying to place where it had belonged in the tomb. It was gold, of course, wrapped tight around a glowing ruby in an intricate design. He searched the gold for any inscription, but found none.

"Well?" Seti's breathless voice panted from where he held Ibebi down against the ground, "What's your verdict, tombkeeper?"

Marik glanced at it before tossing it carelessly onto the pile. "A pretty trinket – nothing more."

" _Thank you_ ," Ibebi breathed, glaring up at Seti.

Seti glowered. He sat back, releasing Ibebi with a disgruntled scowl, and then stamped over to retrieve the amulet from the mountainous pile of gold. Ibebi dusted himself off with a haughty sniff, seating himself primly back on the sand as he once again began to go through the treasure.

"I still say it could be magic," Seti muttered sullenly, his eyes captivated by the glowing-red ruby.

Marik snorted. "Trust me, if it was magic, you'd know."

Seti sent him a keen stare, and Marik suddenly felt as if he may have revealed too much. "So magic amulets _do_ exist?"

"…I don't know about amulets…" Marik answered uncertainly. Unbidden, his mind dipped to the Millennium Items held by the Pharaoh's Council, including the Necklace that his sister controlled. He had seen their magic first-hand. He would never admit it to this band of thieves, though.

Seti turned and pointed a triumphant finger at Ibebi. "Told you so!"

"He's a tombkeeper," Ibebi retorted without turning, "Of course he's going to be superstitious."

Marik narrowed his eyes, not much liking Ibebi's tone. "As opposed to what, you?"

"I follow the sciences. They have proof and grounding in reality."

"Just because you were apprenticed to some big-shot healer," Seti shot back bitterly.

Ibebi stiffened.

"Everyone knows some things bring protection," Seti muttered under his breath. "Just look at the Eye of Horus."

"The Eye is the Thief King's," Menes interjected without looking up from his parchment.

Seti waved an airy hand. "I know, I know, I'd never dare touch anything of the chief's." He chortled with amusement. "Could you imagine what would happen if I did?"

The three of them gave a collective shudder.

Marik glanced between them, his interest piqued despite himself. Although he had been travelling with them for quite some time now, he had yet to see the Thief King do anything extraordinarily violent or frightening, and yet his men seemed to believe him capable of almost anything.

Ibebi caught Marik's look and gave a short chuckle. "You have yet to see his rage, tombkeeper."

Marik chewed his inner cheek. "I can't believe he gets that bad."

"Then you're a fool." Seti snorted, his pale eyes dancing as he fixed them on Marik. "He's been going easy on you."

Marik lifted a brow. Unbidden, his mind went to their night-time sparring sessions, which were, as far as he knew, a secret from the other thieves. Nothing about them felt _easy_ , and his back still smarted from the amount of defeats he had endured.

"You know, that's true," Menes added with a thoughtful smile. "He's been very gentle with you, considering you didn't even choose to come here."

Marik blinked. "Are you telling me the rest of you _opted_ to travel with him?"

"Of course." Ibebi frowned at him. "Did you think he kidnapped us all in our sleep?"

Marik shook his head, slowly realising how ridiculous that would be. No one showing this much undying loyalty to their leader could have been forced there against their will. _So what am I doing here…?_ Marik felt an uncomfortable shift in his stomach as he considered the possibly that maybe he was staying with the Thief King because he _liked_ this lifestyle.

The tomb had never felt further away.

"I came here to join other thieves," Seti added easily. "I'd already been stealing most my life – made sense to join up with others."

"Especially our King," Ibebi reminded in his soft, sharp voice.

Seti gave a short snicker. "Yeah, though I wasn't banking on the rest of you low-life's being here."

"I am not a _low-life_ ," Ibebi answered primly, drawing himself up.

"You are now, ever since your big-shot healer chucked you out for making eyes at his daughter…"

"Shut up." Ibebi's tone quickly turned frosty and he glared at the gold in his hand, once again starting to sort through it.

Seti gave a chortle. He turned back to Marik, gesturing down to the mound of treasure still waiting to be sorted. "Of course, our great King won't like you for very much longer if you don't get this all sorted."

"I'm well aware," Marik responded waspishly, "But frankly there's a hell of a lot here, and if he wants it done then he can damn well help out himself."

A low whistle left Seti's lips, accompanied by a stunned silence from the others. Ibebi was staring at him as if he'd just grown two heads.

Seti chuckled. "Got a bite on him, this one."

Marik glared. "You'll get bitten too, if you aren't careful."

"Oh, I'm so scared," Seti chortled. However, he did go back to his own pile of treasure, and soon a sense of normality and bickering settled back over the camp.

Marik turned to his cataloguing with a slow spread of trepidation through his heart. He worried at his lower lip with his teeth as he worked, considering several things in his mind and weighing up all the thoughts he had been splattered with since he first left the tomb. He couldn't deny that this part of his life, with the Thief King and his band of robbers tracking across the desert, had been the best section of his life so far. Marik never felt freer than when he was up on a horse with the Thief King behind him, galloping securely across the desert. Even their sparring sessions were building him up, allowing him to use his body in ways he'd always been restricted from before. There was no doubt in Marik's mind that this life was better than any he could have had in the Palace or the tomb.

But … did that mean that he actually _liked_ it?

He liked living in exile? Committing crimes? Travelling with a man responsible for murder and death and, worst of all, robbing _tombs_?

As his heart thudded away dully in his chest, Marik was beginning to suspect the answer to that question was 'yes'.

And that thought scared him most of all.

 **There's another chapter. It's still filler. Please don't hate me . *hides* look out for an update soon! – Jem**


	10. Chapter 10

**Okkkk so this might be more filler, but it has a bit more shippy stuff, so that could be good? xD And oh my goodness, thanks to the reviewers! I am so so SO happy that you think this story is gripping and you can put up with all my random OC information with the other thieves xD I am trying to make them believable characters, and they need backstories to do that, so… yeah. Hope it doesn't annoy anyone ^^ Thanks so much for sticking with me and managing to make it this far. I promise it will be worth it eventually – Jem**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, Marik, or Bakura. Kazuki Takahashi does**

It took two weeks to sort through all the treasure collected from Aknamkanon's tomb. Marik and Menes worked tirelessly at it, writing out list after list detailing the exact details of the treasure and a guesstimate of how much they would be worth at the markets. Marik relied more heavily on Menes for that – he wasn't exactly up to date with the black, behind-closed-doors selling that went on with stolen goods.

Of course, the other thieves picked through the loot for the items they would want themselves. Seti kept the amulet. Even Marik pocketed a couple of bracelets that caught his eye, his gaze lingering on them for a long, long moment before he finally decided to slip them onto his wrists.

He swore he had sensed the Thief King sending him an approving nod at that.

Once all the treasure had been effectively listed, the Thief King and Seti would ride out to the markets, occasionally joined by Anen or Menes or both. On one of their scouting sessions, Anen and Bakura had found a small, working village about half-a-day's ride to the north, and it housed a very healthy marketplace with stall owners who didn't question too deeply about where the treasure had come from.

Marik was not allowed to go. The Thief King had said his riding was not yet strong enough, and commanded Thut to stay with him at the camp whilst the others were out. Marik had argued bitterly, but to no avail. He couldn't decide whether the Thief King was keeping him at the camp for his own safety, though, or whether he just didn't fully trust Marik enough yet to allow him to have contact with people who weren't the thieves.

So Marik sat disconsolately by the ashes of last night's fire, picking savagely at the bracelets on his wrists. He could sense Thut staring at him with an amused glint to his tiny eyes. Marik had had little to do with the huge, burly man so far – he was usually off hunting, or pacing the desert in his own mysterious way – and he felt a little nervous about being left alone with him for so long.

He needn't have worried. Although huge, Thut had a great sense of humour, and a giggle like a little girl. He and Marik were soon getting on, and Marik learned the story of how he joined the Thief King, too.

"I was fourteen," Thut explained in his deep, throaty voice. "Been living rough in a little village my whole life – parents died when I was young – and this little scrap of a thief half my size and two years my junior came swaggering onto my patch and thought he could steal right under my nose." Thut chortled. "Trouble is, he was right."

Marik arched a disbelieving brow. "The Thief King is that good?"

"Never seen a thief like him," Thut admitted openly. "I once witnessed him take earrings right out from a woman's ears, and steal her bag and bracelets whilst he was at it."

Marik shook his head, a little awed despite himself. He had seen first-hand how quick the Thief King's reflexes were, and his strength was formidable even whist he moved silently and without leaving tracks. It didn't take much of a stretch of imagination to cast him as a master thief.

"'Course, we got into a fight," Thut continued with his story, "'Cos the little runt kept stealing all the best bits on my patch. I beat him up pretty good, but he was fast and went running off somewhere. When he came back, Anen was with him."

Marik blinked. "Anen knew him way back then?"

"Wouldn't surprise me if Anen's known him all his life," Thut advised, "Not that I know anything about them. Anyway, Anen comes up to me, bold as gold, and asked if I wanted to join them. No 'thank you for not murdering my boy', no 'sorry', no explanation, just _will you come travelling with us, young man?_ " Thut snorted. "I laughed in their faces at first, but then the little thief showed me his gold. Needless to say, I was impressed – they'd just looted a tomb."

Marik's face blanched. "He was _twelve_ and he'd _looted a tomb_?!"

"But of course," a horrifyingly familiar and, at that moment, very unwelcome, dark voice answered. "I've been _looting tombs_ since I was nine."

Marik choked. He span around super-quick to find the Thief King himself leaning languidly against his black stallion, watching Marik with a grin.

Marik spluttered. "Where in the hell did you come from?"

"It's called the desert," the Thief King answered without blinking. "Big sandy place. You might have seen it somewhere."

"Very funny." Marik made a face at him.

Bakura chortled, walking forward to join them. He flopped down onto the sand beside Marik and began poking at the fire, stirring up the flames again as the night began to draw near. He glanced at Thut. "You got a bit of the story wrong, though. You didn't beat me up."

Thut grinned. "Gave you a pretty good black eye, if I remember rightly."

"You got lucky," Bakura grunted.

Marik glanced between them, eyeing up Thut's huge size and thick, muscular arms, compared to the Thief King's wiry, lean frame. "…I'd have thought Thut would win easily."

Thut just chortled louder. The Thief King sent Marik a mild glare, his grey eyes dancing in the beginnings of the firelight. "Oh, really?"

"He's a lot bigger than you."

Bakura smiled thinly. "After all our sparring sessions, I thought you might have realised that appearances can be deceiving."

Marik rolled his eyes. "You're fast, but you can't be stronger than Thut."

"Speed is everything, and he has more weight I can use against him."

Thut gave a nod of agreement, casting his eyes skyward. "Much as I'd like it not to be true, he's right."

Marik pursed his lips. "Well, _I_ managed to floor you the last time we sparred."

The Thief King stilled in his poking at the flames. Thut lifted a brow and glanced between them, a snicker daring to grace his lips. The Thief King eyed him as if _daring_ him to comment.

Needless to say, Thut declined.

Marik snickered to himself, feeling proud, and even though the thief turned to send him a mild glare, Marik found he wasn't even afraid anymore.

…

That night, the thieves disappeared inside their tents again, leaving Marik and the Thief King outside. Menes had assured the Thief King that he was working on weaving a new tent now that all the treasure had been catalogued, and in a few days it should all be finished and ready to be lived in. Bakura had merely sent him a wry smirk.

Marik wasn't sure how to feel about that. He had grown accustomed to the Thief King's presence at night; although he was restless, constantly wandering, and Marik still had yet to see him sleep, there was something about knowing he was there that allowed Marik to rest a little easier at night. It would be strange once he was sleeping in a tent.

Marik himself preferred being out under the stars. He drank in the sky every night, his violet eyes reflecting back the starlight as he lay on his side and looked up, enjoying the vast wheeling expanse of it all splayed out above him. In the tomb, he had missed the sky, longing to see it again. Now, he was never indoors.

He still nightmared every night. He would wake sweating and shaking, the image of his Father looming over him with a knife, the flickering shadows lunging around the tomb threatening to enfold his mind in darkness. The images chased around his head until he sat up gasping, or was shaken awake, and he always found himself face to face with the Thief King. Those grey eyes would burn at him, occasionally questioning, but Marik dodged divulging any information. He didn't want to share his story. It was painful to think of – his back already smarted after every dream – and it would lead to too many uncomfortable questions about his connection with the Palace. The Thief King seemed to burn with curiosity, but he didn't ever push Marik. Instead, he would take his arm and lead him out into the desert for more sparring.

Which was why Marik once again found himself on his back.

The Thief King was smirking down at him as he held his blade out to Marik's throat. "And dead. Again."

"Yes, yes, you've killed me hundreds of times now," Marik responded irritably.

Bakura's smirk widened as he stepped back, placing his blade back in his cloak and offering a hand out for Marik to take, all in one fluid motion. Marik gripped his hand and got back to his feet, a little unsteadily as pain glanced down his back, although he still refused to show any weakness on his face.

Bakura didn't let go of his hand straightaway. His grey eyes trained on Marik's, the lazy smirk stretched across his face. "I don't know if it's quite _hundreds._ "

"Whatever it is, it's making my muscles ache," Marik answered dryly, "Even if I _do_ get you some of the time."

"Only some," the Thief King stressed, "Don't go getting arrogant."

"Coming from you?" Marik snorted.

The thief's eyes kept dancing at him, light-grey glistening in the starlight. The moon was new, leaving the stars as the only source of light, and so all Marik could truly see of Bakura was the silvery glisten to his hair and the jagged scar that tracked down the side of his face. His hand was warm in Marik's. Marik was gripped by the sudden, unbidden desire to move forwards, to hold the thief and feel his warmth all around him; a comfort in the freezing desert night.

But that was irrational, and the Thief King would probably attack him for the attempt.

Or would he? It was getting more and more difficult for Marik to guess at the Thief King's motives, or figure out his intentions. It felt like he could hardly turn around without that dancing grey gaze fixed on him, or that lazy smirk watching his way around the camp. Marik couldn't help but shiver whenever he sensed the thief watching him.

"Come here."

The Thief King's voice broke into Marik's thoughts and he blinked, glancing towards the thief in the shadows of the night. He frowned. "Why?"

"Why must you always question me?" The Thief King's voice still dripped with amusement, and he tugged on Marik's hand, drawing him closer. Marik moved with a squeak, his body crashing forwards almost into Bakura's chest, but the thief caught him easily.

Marik blinked when something was pressed into his hand. "What's this?"

"For you."

Marik lifted the object closer to his eyes, inspecting its shadowy form. His eyes widened a little when he realised it was a knife. The handle was warm wood, engraved with something, but in the darkness Marik couldn't make it out. From the weight of it, he could tell it was much finer than the simple blade he'd been practising with. Marik thought he caught a glimpse of gold.

"What is this?" He gasped.

"You need a better blade." Marik could hear the smirk in Bakura's voice. "Fit for a king, after all."

Marik rolled his eyes a little at the play on the meaning of his name. He couldn't help but chuckle, though. "The Thief King is calling _me_ a king? I think I should be flattered."

"I warned you about getting arrogant."

"Then you shouldn't give me nice things."

"Are you complaining?"

"Hm…" Marik paused thoughtfully, a wicked grin at his lips. "…Depends how much gold it's got."

A slightly stunned silence hung for a moment. Then, a low chuckle escaped Bakura's lips, far closer to Marik's ear than he expected. "You are quite the brat, aren't you?"

Marik bristled at that comment, although he still felt the irrational desire to laugh, and to move closer to the thief. _Bad idea. You don't even know him, remember?_ He sniffed. "Believe me, if I was a brat, I don't think I'd have survived with you this long."

"Mm," the thief was laughing again; Marik could hear it in his voice. "You do enough complaining for a brat."

"I can't help it if your living conditions aren't up to scratch."

The thief gave a harsh laugh, his chest rumbling close to Marik's ear. He turned, tugging on Marik's hand to lead him back towards the camp. Marik complied without complaint, stashing his new knife deep within his cloak. The Thief King's hand felt warm and natural in his own.

However, after a few more steps, Marik jerked his hand free and backed up with a panicked gasp.

In the orange light of the dawning sun, a shadow slowly became illuminated by Marik's feet. It was a shadow that was long, and sinuous, with a rearing head and a long, never-ending tail that curled around itself agitatedly. A shadow that _hissed_.

A snake.

Marik backed up as fast as he possibly could, feeling his panicked breaths rattling through his chest, his heart thudding away loud in his throat. He swallowed, putting as much distance between himself and the horrid hissing winding _thing_ as he could.

"Marik?"

The Thief King's voice sounded confused, probably wondering where on earth he had just disappeared to. Marik couldn't speak. He was gasping loudly, eyes fixed on the snake. It reared its head, waking with the dawning sun, and hissing loudly.

"Marik, what…" the thief stopped suddenly when he followed Marik's terrified stare to see the snake lolling its head in the sand. He blinked. Then turned his head to glance at Marik, who was visibly trembling. Then back to the snake, which reared its head at him, blinking sleepily in the dawning sun.

Bakura threw his head back and laughed.

Marik felt a shiver ripple down his spine at that unruly, wild sound, the hairs on his arms rising in response. Something dropped to the bottom of his stomach, but he brushed it away, more focused on the movements of the snake and keeping as far away from it as possible. He bit back a horrified scream, instead releasing a strangled gasp as the snake actually began to _move towards him…!_

"C-calm down!" The thief finally got himself together enough to move, holding up a hand. "And stay still. You're fine."

 _I am not fine!_ Marik wanted to holler, but all he could manage was another strangled yelp.

The Thief King rolled his eyes. "If you keep making noises like that, you're just asking her to attack you."

Much to Marik's shock, the thief strode calmly up to the snake and crouched by its side. The snake stared at him, its head weaving sinuously side-to-side, and Bakura almost seemed to match its movements as they looked at each other. Marik was frozen in shock as he watched Bakura extend a hand, and the snake slid happily up his arm.

"Wh-what the hell are you doing?!" Marik finally managed to choke past the closing of his throat.

The Thief King turned to him with an arched brow and an amused glint to his grey eyes. "Saying hello."

Marik shook on the spot, but his look said exactly what he thought of that response.

"She isn't going to hurt you," the thief explained patiently, turning his body so Marik could see the snake sway its weary way up to his shoulders. "She's tired – I think you woke her up."

"I don't care! Get it away from me!"

The thief smirked, taking a step closer, but Marik skittered back ten paces and buried his face in his hands. He was breathing rapidly, his nails clenching into his skin as he tried to keep calm. Snakes were one thing he could _not_ cope with.

"Marik?"

There was a slight rustle, followed by footsteps, and then something warm touched Marik's arm. He jumped five feet in the air, giving a loud shriek, but then hands gripped his shoulders and gave him a slight shake. "It's just me, Marik."

Marik dared to peek through his fingers to find the Thief King watching him, his expression carefully impassive.

Marik drew in a breath, glancing around quickly. "Wh-where…"

"The snake's gone," he explained gently, "I put her down and she slithered off somewhere under the sand. She won't be coming back."

Marik took in another slow, shuddering breath, attempting to calm the trembling of his limbs and the thudding of his heartbeat. He felt dizzy.

Warm hands drew him closer, until he was almost against the Thief King's chest, and a hand at the back of his head forced him to meet the Thief King's grey gaze. He arched one brow. "Now, what was that all about?"

"Nothing," Marik spat back automatically.

The thief lifted his eyes skywards before looking back and capturing Marik's gaze with his. He smirked, and Marik felt the breath leave his body all over again. "I have told you before about keeping secrets from me."

"It's nothing," Marik repeated stubbornly.

"It clearly isn't."

"I just don't like snakes."

Bakura snorted. "Your definition of _don't like_ is a bit extreme."

Marik narrowed his eyes into a glare, the last remnants of panic in his system making him more honest than he usually would be. "I think you'd hate them too if you were bitten as a kid!"

"Oho!" The Thief King tightened his grip on Marik's shivering form, holding him in place. "You were bitten?"

Marik glared, but kept his silence.

The thief rolled his eyes. "It really isn't going to hurt you that much to tell me a bit about you."

"…A snake got in the tomb," Marik muttered sullenly after a while, "My first year there. It bit my ankle. I was in bed for weeks."

The thief arched a brow. "Doesn't seem so bad."

"Oh, _sure_ ," Marik snapped back. He drew in a breath, trying not to remember his Father's reaction when he had found Marik lying pained and gasping in the corridor, pale from the venom. _You are a weakling, boy! No son of mine should behave like this! Get up and walk, boy!_

The warm hands on his shoulder gave him a shake, bringing Marik back to the present. He looked up to meet the Thief King's curious grey gaze. "There's something else."

Marik pursed his lips and kept his silence.

"Tell me." The Thief King's demand was quiet, low, in his deep, alluring voice.

Marik closed his eyes and blew out a slow, calming breath. "My Father didn't handle it very well."

"Oh? How so?"

Marik flinched automatically, pulling out of the thief's grip only for his elbows to be grabbed instead of his shoulders. The Thief King eyed him with a calm stare. "Tell me."

Marik shifted uncomfortably, staring down at the sand by his feet. "…He … he didn't like it when I showed weakness. Said I was a disappointment, couldn't uphold the family name."

Bakura nodded slowly, his lips pursed. "He punished you?"

Marik flinched again. The scars on his back prickled, sending a ripple of burning pain shivering through his skin. The holes where his skin should be ached.

Then, without warning, warm arms were enclosing him and Marik's face was buried in a shoulder. The Thief King's musky, enticing scent surrounded him, filled with a promise of shadows and darkness, pleasure and warmth, and the _heat_ of his body was incredible in the cool first light of dawn.

"The snake's gone now," the thief mentioned conversationally, and managed to still sound matter-of-fact, "So you can stop shivering."

Marik drew in another breath. Without questioning the situation, he pressed his face into the brown neck that was offered to him and lifted his hands to grip onto the thief's red cloak, moving closer into the warmth. It was pleasant after the freezing desert night. He gave another small, shuddering breath, and allowed his body to relax, the memories of the tomb flooding out from him, flashing behind his eyelids. He let them flow; they would be gone soon enough, and then he could return to normal.

Bakura glanced down at the body so suddenly pressed up against his own, and felt a slight shudder ripple through him. This feeling was … foreign. He watched the growing sunlight play across Marik's golden hair, feeling arms grip onto him, and he automatically tightened his grip around Marik's back. A foreign expression crossed his face. He pursed his lips, allowing the moment to continue for a short while longer, before his lazy smirk spread across his mouth again. "You _are_ awfully fond of falling asleep on me."

Marik instantly drew back, lifting his face to meet the thief's eyes, only to find himself trapped by the arms encircling his back. His heart was thudding loudly again, but for an entirely different reason this time. He summoned up a glare from somewhere. "You started this one."

The thief didn't deny it; instead, his grey eyes glittered at Marik, dancing in the morning rays of sun. "Can you really blame me?" he hummed softly.

Marik blinked. Confusion flitted across his face for a moment, unsure what the Thief King was getting at, or how much to read into his words. His grey eyes were looking straight into Marik's narrowed violet gaze, and there was an unreadable emotion flicking in them, along with the fire that always seemed to burn in the Thief King's gaze.

"After all," the thief continued, his low voice vibrant in the desert night, "You're still carrying your past, when you need to let it go."

Marik stared at him.

Without hesitating, a warm hand was on the back of Marik's head, fingering through the golden strands of his hair. Marik froze, staring at the Thief King, confusion rattling through his skull. His brain was a mess of scattered thoughts as the thief leaned closer, those grey eyes inching ever nearer to Marik's own, and the _scent_ of him was everywhere, surrounding Marik in an enticing mix that promised warmth and excitement and understanding. He felt his breath stop in his chest, his heart pounding in his ribcage as the thief pressed him closer.

The Thief King continued to watch him.

Marik's lips were tingling. His brain was frozen in stasis, locked in place, and all he could see was the thief's grey eyes watching him, his silver hair in the dawning sun, the jagged scar that traced down his face all the way to his lips … Marik's eyes landed there and he couldn't seem to look away. He swallowed with difficulty, his stomach a mess of jumping nerves. His entire body craved to move forwards, to close the last bit of distance between them and finally feel himself as close to the Thief King as he had been craving for a long time now. For Marik now realised that that was exactly what he'd been doing; craving the Thief King's touch.

The thief stared straight at him, and was it Marik's imagination or was he leaning closer? Breath brushed across Marik's lips, his body so warm and close, and Marik closed his eyes and started to move closer…

"Chief! We've got something!"

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Bakura pulled back from Marik, dropping his arms and stepping out of touching distance as he turned to where the voice had sounded from. It was Seti, standing at the camp a little way off with one arm lifted in a signal, beckoning for Bakura to come closer. Marik was left with a rush of unsatisfied warmth flooding through him. He drew in another shaky breath, clenching his fists by his sides and closing his eyes as he tried to get his rushing heartbeat to relax. That had been way too close. _Way_ too close. He had very nearly kissed the Thief King, and then he wasn't sure what would have happened.

He'd either be dead by now, or even further in the Thief King's grip.

He wasn't even sure which one of those he would prefer.

When Marik opened his eyes again, it was to find Bakura staring straight at him. He jumped instinctively, then narrowed his eyes to hide his momentary shock and discomfort, clicking his jaw. He gestured to Seti. "Shouldn't you get to that?"

The Thief King's eyes were dancing, as if he had some kind of private joke on Marik. It just served to make Marik feel even more self-conscious than he already did, but he hid the irritating emotion behind another glare.

The thief's lazy smirk spread back across his lips. "Of course, but I'm not leaving until you come with me."

Marik blinked, thrown again for a moment.

"Can't risk you running off again." Bakura reached out and gripped Marik's wrist, beginning to drag him back towards the camp.

Marik resisted after a moment, tugging away with a low hiss. "I can walk for myself!"

"Then get a move on." Bakura was still smirking, and the expression infuriated Marik more than anything.

Marik growled, then reached out and grabbed Bakura's hand, striding off towards the camp with him in tow. Bakura lifted a brow. "Sometimes, I wonder when you stopped being so afraid of me."

"I was never _afraid_ of you," Marik scoffed.

"Oh really?" The thief chuckled, leaning in suddenly to be closer to Marik's ear. "Could have fooled me. I thought you might shit your pants the first time you walked in here."

Marik startled at those blunt words, already flustered, before he rolled his eyes with a muttered, "You wish."

The Thief King merely gave a hash laugh, and kept his hand in Marik's as they walked on towards Seti and the camp.

 **I don't really know how I feel about this. I hope it's ok and makes sense… yeah… anyway, thanks so much for reading this far ^^ I'm actually going away tomorrow for a week, so the next update won't be until I get back from then, probably. Though if I have wifi where I'm going, it might be out sooner. Thanks so much for reading, and I'd love to know what you think so far~ Thank you! - Jem**


	11. Chapter 11

**Back from my holiday with an update, thanks for your patience and lovely reviews ^^ So yep, this story is actually going to be somewhere around 20 chapters I reckon – well I'm currently writing chapter 17 and it's not finished yet. xD I hope you enjoy this chapter! – Jem**

 **Warnings: Slightly steamy citronshipping, nothing explicit though (I don't write sex)**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own Marik or Bakura or Yu-Gi-Oh!, the wonderful man Kazuki Takahashi does**

When they got back to the camp, Seti was standing proudly over a mound of treasure. "I sorted through our first order," he told the Thief King with a thump to his chest.

Bakura arched a brow at him. "By yourself?"

"Yep!"

"Didn't Menes help you?"

Seti screwed his face up. "I don't need the little scrawn-pot."

"I think you might, seeing as he's the only one who could read the order," Bakura paused for a moment to send Marik a sidelong glance, "…Aside from the good tombkeeper over there, and he's been busy with me."

Despite himself, Marik almost flushed at those words. His thoughts instantly dove back to the moment in the Thief King's arms, when he had been held so tight and held the thief in return. Had he really been only seconds from kissing him…?

Seti snorted with laughter. "Oh, don't you worry about that, chief. Menes gave me the items all proper like, I just sorted them."

The Thief King raised his eyes upwards. "You called me all the way over here to show me you'd put some gold _in a pile_?"

"Well, yeah." Seti grinned. "It's a _good_ pile though, isn't it?"

Bakura very calmly reached out and cuffed Seti around the back of his head. Seti yelped, rubbing at his cropped hair with an indignant stare at the thief, his eyes narrowed. "What was that for?!"

"You were interrupting something important," Bakura answered breezily before he pushed passed Seti and bent down to inspect the gold.

Marik stared after him, blinking in quiet shock. _Something important…? Did he feel it too, then?_ Marik shook his head, unused to this strange feeling of uncertainty and confusion. He liked to be in control – more than that, he _needed_ it. He didn't like the way the thief could so easily throw him off-balance, and start him thinking about crazy, stupid things like kissing and clinging and how much warmer it would be to sleep next to another body at night.

He hid his thoughts behind a glare, and went to make breakfast.

It didn't take long for the rest of the thieves to rise, and then they were all off out again. Bakura and Anen were scouting, leaving Menes and Ibebi to go to the markets to drop off their orders and hopefully reel in some more custom. Marik was once again left at the camp with Thut.

Marik sighed, staring frustrated at the sand as he sat near a vast pile of gold. He couldn't keep his thoughts away from the Thief King, and the moment they had almost shared out in the desert. He didn't know how to feel. Although part of him was disgusted at what he was feeling, and had to keep reminding himself that the thief was a _tombrobber_ and the lowest of the low, another part wouldn't let him forget that the thief was also comfortingly warm, and had the ability to make Marik laugh and smile and feel at _home_ for the first time in ages.

When had this desolate space begun to feel like home?

And yet, when the Thief King wasn't there, it was harder for Marik to feel comfortable. He found his feet tapping impatiently, his fingers curling and relaxing at different intervals, and his eyes constantly flicking around the tents and sacks to look for any movement that might herald his return. Marik knew it was foolish – the thief never returned until late into the evening, even well into the night sometimes.

Well, Marik refused to sit around here moping like a child. He was forbidden from going to the markets, fine – he was going to investigate the camp instead, then. He got irritably to his feet and headed for the sacks of gold, kneeling beside them to finger the jewels again.

Thut was watching him with an expression tinged with amusement.

Marik sent him a sullen glare from where he sat with the gold. "What?"

"Nothing," Thut replied faux-innocently, though his tiny eyes were glittering and his grin was huge.

Marik glanced back at the statue in his hand – a gold likeness of Anubis – and then placed it back in the sack before fully turning to face Thut. The gold still served as an unpleasant reminder of the tomb he had grown up in, and he wanted to put that section of his life behind him, as much as he could. The prickling of his back still reminded him that he would never be totally free. So, to distract himself, Marik glared at Thut. "Why are you laughing at me?"

"Laughing at you?" Thut's deep voice rumbled with amusement, causing the air between them to shiver. "Now why would I do that?"

"I don't have a clue, that's why I asked," Marik muttered. He settled in the sand, cross-legged, and glared down at his feet. His skin had turned quite a bit darker since he had been travelling with the band of thieves, though his hair was as bright blond as ever. How long had it been, now, since he first met the Thief King? One month? Two?

"Come on, tombkeeper," Thut chuckled, "You're moping like a child."

Marik whipped around at that, glaring at him furiously. "I am not a child!"

"To us, you are."

"I'm _sixteen_ ," Marik hissed, "And I do not _mope_."

"Could have fooled me."

"Thut!"

The big, dark Egyptian merely grinned, and gave his childish laugh. He leaned back on his palms, his knife laid lazily across his knees from where he had been sharpening it. He turned his head out towards the desert, giving a big sniff and then a satisfied sigh. "Mmm … do you smell that?"

"Smell what?" Marik asked sullenly, still sore.

"That. Like meat."

Marik blinked, glancing up at that. Meat was a rarity this far out from the city – they had only had it once since making camp here, much to the thieves' constant grumbles. Especially the Thief King; he seemed to have a taste for meat.

Thut turned his head to glance out from the camp, licking his lips in anticipation. "I've smelled it for a while now – there's an animal out there just begging to be hunted."

"So go and catch it," Marik mumbled disinterestedly.

"Can't. Gotta watch you."

Marik rolled his eyes, stabbing at the sand by his feet with his fingernails. "I'm not going to run off anywhere."

"I'm ordered to watch you all the same," Thut shrugged, although his face was still trained far out to the desert.

Marik sent him a keen glance. He hadn't had a moment to himself since he joined the band of thieves – except when he was washing, but even then, he was always within earshot of the camp. He had never really craved privacy, and the thieves made surprisingly good company, but Marik had to admit he wouldn't mind a little time to himself. He looked carefully at Thut. "I'm not going to get in trouble if you're just gone for a few hours."

Thut turned to glance at him. "I can't leave you. Thief King's orders."

"So get back before he does," Marik shrugged.

Thut's lips twitched. "He knows everything. He'll find out."

"Not if we don't tell him," Marik smirked, "And the others will be out all day, you know that."

Thut looked torn.

"Look," Marik very deliberately lay down on his side by the ashes of last night's fire, cushioning his head with his arm, "I'm taking an afternoon nap. You could slip out and be back before I even wake."

Thut's eyes remained fixed on him, but he kept silent, shifting with indecision.

"I'm sure the Thief King would appreciate the meat," Marik continued to persuade.

Thut watched him for another minute before he grinned. "Aye, and I would too." He got to his feet, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder, his dark cloak whipping around him as he turned to his horse. "Don't move, got it? And you'd better be sleeping when I get back."

"Promise." Marik grinned. He lay on his side, watching as Thut readied himself and jumped up onto his horse, galloping away into the desert with a loud _Hyah_!

Once he was out of sight, Marik sat up again and grinned around the empty camp. Finally, some time to himself.

He got back to his feet, wandering restlessly around the thieves' leftover belongings. He even went so far as to peep into a couple of their tents – he had never dared look inside before, though it seemed he hadn't been missing much. The insides were simple, with only a mat to sleep on and a few scattered belongings, mostly hoarded from the treasure of Aknamkanon's tomb.

Soon bored again, Marik took his seat by the fire and took to watching the sky. A few clouds scudded across the distant horizon, burnt pale orange in the bright light of the afternoon sun. It was as hot and dry as ever. Marik retreated under his purple hood, leaning back on his hands as he gazed upwards. His back was still prickling, but in the silence and calm of the desert, it was fairly easy to keep the horrid memories of the tomb away.

Instead, Marik found his thoughts drifting back to his very earliest childhood, when he had lived in the Palace with Isis and their Father. He had looked upon his sister as something close to a mother – she was seven years his senior, after all, and always looked out for him. His own mother had died in his childbirth, and he had never got the chance to know her. He often wondered what she was like; Isis said she looked like her, except that mother had violet eyes like Marik's. Marik had liked the thought of that.

If he ever had a nightmare, or got bullied by some of the bigger kids, then Isis would cradle him close to her chest and gently hum him a lullaby. That was before she had been made a Priestess, of course, and been gifted one of the Millennium Items – once that happened, she'd hardly had any time to see him. But, she still came to him every night, with a soft pat on the head and a gentle kiss to his forehead, and she would sing him to sleep. Marik found the melody of the lullaby rose unbidden to his lips, as he sat there among the sunlight in the vast expanse of the desert. _You never imagined me coming here, sister, with all your foretelling and your insight … I bet you never pictured this life for me…_

"That's an interesting melody."

Marik started, his eyes flying wide open. He spun around so quick that his neck cricked, and he winced, lifting a hand to rub at his warm bronze skin. The Thief King leaned against his black stallion at the edge of the camp nearest the oasis, and his grey eyes were trained straight on Marik.

Marik blinked, his expression showing his shock before he schooled it back into a scowl. "What are you doing back?"

"And here I thought you'd welcome me." The thief rolled his eyes, giving his horse's rump a gentle slap and watching as he trotted to the oasis. "My stallion grew too tired, so I left Anen scouting and returned here."

Marik licked his lips, feeling his mouth go a little dry. He was suddenly acutely aware that he was alone in the camp, and now the thief had returned. He hadn't planned on this.

Bakura seemed to realise this slowly, too, as he approached Marik after casting a keen glance around the camp. "Where is Thut?"

"He went hunting," Marik replied evenly.

"Did he now?" The thief's grey eyes were glittering as he took a seat opposite Marik, his silver-white hair hanging wildly about his face. "Interesting. I seem to remember giving him orders not to leave you alone."

Marik arched a brow. "Did you?"

"Indeed. And as no one else seems to be here…" Bakura narrowed his eyes. "What did you tell him to get him to leave?"

Marik widened his eyes, his tone wounded. "How could you suggest such a thing?!"

"He would never disobey my order," the Thief King answered shortly.

Marik shifted, glaring. "I'm not a child, and I don't need a babysitter."

"I beg to differ." The Thief King leaned back lazily, though his expression was still dark as he pinned Marik with his sharp grey gaze. "So I repeat – what did you tell him?"

Marik held that harsh gaze for another minute before relenting, dropping his expression with a sigh. "Alright, fine. He smelled an animal and wanted to go hunting, so I told him I'd just sleep until he got back."

Bakura raised a brow. "Yes. You certainly seem to be asleep."

"Shut up," Marik glared.

"Don't tell me what to do." The thief's grey eyes were dancing with amusement as he eyed Marik, that damned lazy smirk playing about his lips again. "It doesn't usually end well when people do that."

Marik folded his arms and looked away, glowering down at the sand. "I'm not most people."

"No, indeed you are not." The Thief King's tone seemed almost teasing again, rumbling with an undercurrent of laughter and something else that Marik couldn't quite place.

Marik found himself wriggling against the sand. Unbidden, his thoughts went back to the last time he'd been alone with the Thief King, out in the desert after the snake had disappeared. He remembered how the thief's arms were warm around his back, and how his scent was enticing and exciting, and how _close_ his face had been to Marik's. Marik felt a shiver ripple down his spine.

 _Bad idea,_ he thought to himself furiously. _He's a tombrobber. He's THE tombrobber. And you know absolutely nothing about him._ He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and forcing his body to relax. This situation was too dangerous; if he was left alone with the Thief King, Marik was becoming more and more certain that he would do something he would later regret.

When Marik opened his eyes again, the Thief King was staring straight at him.

Under that dancing grey gaze, Marik felt all his carefully controlled thoughts scatter again. This was ridiculous. Every time he met the thief's eyes, Marik could feel his body reacting, his blood beginning to rush and his stomach squirming within him. All the teasing, the long stares, the damned _scent_ of the thief were affecting him, and Marik was fed up of his reactions so easily giving him away.

He needed to do something about it.

The Thief King arched a brow, clearly noting something odd in Marik's expression. "Something bothering you, little tombkeeper?"

Marik brushed off the nickname in favour of staring at the thief, gathering his courage. He pursed his lips. "Earlier. When we were out sparring."

"Yes?" The thief leaned back on his hands, a lazy smirk twitching his lips, and suddenly Marik was sure that he _knew_. The damned thief knew where Marik was going with this, but he wasn't going to make it any easier. It was like the endless games they had been playing ever since Marik had arrived here.

Well. Marik could play with the best of them, and he was going to prove it.

"I was going to kiss you," he stated bluntly, and watched for the thief's reaction.

Even the Thief King could not remain impassive in the face of such directness. His eyes momentarily widened, his face betraying surprise for just an instant before he schooled it back into his lazy smirk, only now his grey eyes were gleaming. He leaned back on his hands, his gaze never leaving Marik's. "Were you now?"

Marik nodded, keeping his expression flat. "I think you were going to kiss me, too."

The thief remained silent for quite some time, his dancing eyes fixed on Marik's and his lips twitching. The quiet dragged on, allowing Marik to hear the gentle thud of his heart, the rushing of his blood through his veins. He swallowed.

"…And if I was?" The thief answered eventually, his tone still dark and alluring.

Marik felt his heart lurch. He shifted a little, his fingers digging into the sand as he continued to look right into the Thief King's eyes. He wasn't going to break first, and he certainly wouldn't show weakness by looking away. After all, the thief's face was captivating when he smirked like that, and his eyes were gleaming with something new. Something close to … hunger.

"Why would you want to?" Marik eventually asked, and he was pleased when his voice was still even, if a little hoarse.

The Thief King chuckled, his smirk still twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Do you really have to ask?"

"…Well, yes," Marik scowled. "I still don't know anything about you."

"No one knows anything about me," the thief answered easily.

Marik shot him a close look, eyeing the scar rippling down his face, his odd silver-coloured hair, and his dancing grey eyes. His stomach dropped, squirming within him, and he could still feel his heart thudding in his throat. "Really?" he asked softly. "No one?"

The Thief King's eyes were trained straight on Marik's, and his expression shifted a little into something more serious. "No one. And I don't know so much about you either, Marik."

"You at least know my name," Marik murmured, "And where I come from." _At least partially._

The thief continued to analyse him. Marik shivered a little under that stare, but he refused to look away. The Thief King's grey eyes were serious for once, his expression neutral, and Marik honestly had no idea what was going on behind the mask he always wore.

"…Bakura," the thief said suddenly.

Marik twitched, his eyes widening a little. "What?"

"That's my name." The thief's face remained impassive, but his eyes were still gleaming with something that Marik couldn't quite place. "Only don't go spreading it around. The others don't know it, aside from Anen."

Marik blinked, watching the thief closely to see if it was a trick. The thief looked honest enough, though, and his face was a little more tense than normal, as if he couldn't quite relax until he had gauged Marik's reaction.

Marik smiled. "Bakura."

The thief dipped his head gracefully, and the lazy smirk was twitching back at his lips. "In return," he spoke lowly, almost a whisper, "I expect something from you."

Marik felt a slow shiver ripple down his spine. "What do you want?"

"You surname," Bakura answered, with his gaze trained on Marik.

Marik instantly stiffened. "I can't do that."

"Why?" the thief pressed, leaning a little closer. His grey eyes were bright with curiosity.

Marik wriggled, for the first time looking away. "I just can't."

"Do you think I'd know the name, hm?" Two warm fingers were placed on Marik's chin, tilting his face up to meet Bakura's gaze again. "Or are you just embarrassed of your family?"

Marik's lips thinned, but he couldn't deny the jump in his stomach when he sensed the thief – Bakura – leaning so close to him again. His skin was just as warm as Marik remembered, and his musky scent just as enticing. Marik couldn't help but lean closer.

Bakura's hand shifted into his hair, his grey eyes still trained on Marik's face. "I will find out. One way or another."

"I can't tell you," Marik repeated stubbornly.

Bakura gave a low sigh. "Do you still not trust me?"

"You told me not to," Marik pointed out.

The Thief King arched a brow.

"I can't trust someone I don't know," Marik murmured, leaning closer still, until he could smell the thief's sweet breath, feel it wash over his skin. "Not entirely."

"Neither can I," Bakura answered, and his voice was low and husky, "Yet you refuse to open your past to me."

Marik gave a tiny, imperceptible shake of his head, leaning his head into Bakura's touch on his hair. "Why should I open up, if you won't?"

"Because you're following me," came Bakura's soft, dark reply, "And I need to trust those who travel by my side."

Marik swallowed a little. He kept his violet eyes trained on Bakura's face, tracing the jagged scar that drifted down the side of his face, and the way his grey eyes always seemed to burn with something inside him that Marik could only guess at.

"Tell me, Marik?" Bakura stated again, but the demand sounded as more of a question this time.

Marik took a breath. He knew he couldn't tell Bakura. If the thief ever found out about his connection with the Palace, there was no guessing his reaction – Marik doubted he would be allowed to stay by Bakura's side then. And yes, he slowly realised, he _did_ want to stay right here.

The thief gave an impatient sigh. "Are you going to tell me? You can't keep your secret forever…"

"Hush," Marik interrupted without thinking. Before Bakura could say anything more, Marik lifted a hand and placed it against Bakura's scarred cheek, meeting his eyes as he leaned a little closer. His heart was thumping loudly in his chest, and his cheeks felt far too warm, but Marik had finally decided that he wasn't going to ignore this anymore. Plus, it could very well get the thief to stop questioning him.

And so, Marik allowed his eyes to slide closed as he pressed his lips against Bakura's.

The thief's lips were dry, cracked with the heat of the desert, but incredibly warm. He was still for a moment, but Marik pressed closer, breathing in the thief's scent and allowing warmth to surround him.

Then, Bakura started reacting.

Warm hands were suddenly gripping Marik's hair, holding him tight. Bakura's mouth opened and attacked Marik mercilessly, pressing him so close as to draw a small gasp from Marik's lips. Bakura chuckled against him, and then his hands were sliding down to Marik's shoulders, pulling the younger boy closer until he was sitting in Bakura's lap. Marik gladly complied. He brought his arms around Bakura's neck, enfolded completely in his warmth.

Bakura's hands went to his hips, pulling Marik closer. He ran his fingers across the purple cloth of his robe, teasing at the material, and then his hands edged up towards Marik's back…

"Stop," Marik pulled back with a gasp.

Bakura eyed him, his hands stilling around Marik. "Something wrong?"

"No," Marik answered immediately, though he twitched when Bakura's fingers ghosted too close to his back. He shivered, reaching down to grab Bakura's arms.

Bakura kept watching him. It didn't take long for the smirk to be back at his lips, and he tugged one hand free of Marik's grip in order to tangle his fingers in his hair again. He chuckled softly. "You are a control freak."

"I am not!" Marik retorted automatically, even as he tilted his head into Bakura's touch.

The thief snickered again, his other hand snaking around Marik's waist. "Then let me do as I please."

"No," Marik answered immediately, and then narrowed his eyes when he sensed Bakura's amusement. He huffed. "I am not a control freak!"

"Relax, then," Bakura hummed, and he pressed his lips back against Marik's before he could retort.

Any lingering annoyance Marik may have felt scattered the instant Bakura was kissing him again. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, enjoying the new sensation, the feeling of having the thief so close against him. Marik had never been this close with anyone before. He had never even thought about it – in the tomb, he never saw anyone other than his Father – but he was deciding he definitely liked it.

Especially when Bakura pulled Marik closer like that.

Marik squirmed, tightening his hold on Bakura, relaxing against him when Bakura's fingers returned to his hair. But whenever Bakura got too close to his back, Marik would grab his hands to stop him.

"What's wrong with your back?" Bakura growled somewhere between kisses.

"Doesn't matter," Marik hissed, and then kissed him again so he couldn't ask more. They didn't break apart until the thunder of hooves disturbed them.

Marik quickly scrambled off Bakura's lap, disentangling himself before anyone could see. He tucked his hair behind his ear, attempting to tease it back into his normal immaculate style whilst also ordering his heart to calm down and his lips to stop tingling. Bakura watched all this with an amused smirk at his lips; he looked as scruffy as ever.

When Menes and Seti arrived, Seti instantly stamped off to wash, complaining loudly about how hot the desert was. Menes seated himself with Bakura and Marik, and he noticed noted amiss. His smile was sunny, his tone bright as he pushed his glasses up his nose. "I got three more offers today!"

"Excellent." Bakura didn't even _sound_ flustered, Marik noted with annoyance. "How much are we looking at?"

"Enough to buy supplies for the next month at least." Menes seated himself happily by his tent, reaching in to tug out his weaving. "I'm nearly done with your tent, too – you won't have to sleep under the stars for much longer."

"Won't that be a shame." The Thief King's tone remained even, but he tossed Marik a secretive wink.

Marik felt his cheeks heat up, and sent Bakura a fiery glare to show _exactly_ what he thought of that.

The others returned section by section. Anen had managed a decent day's scouting, even without Bakura's company, and when Ibebi returned it was armed with a whole host of new herbs that he claimed were excellent for healing. Marik didn't understand most of what he said, but he sounded very excited about it.

When Thut arrived, it was with a good hunk of meat slung over his shoulder, and he looked very proud of himself.

Bakura fixed him with a glare. "And where have you been?"

Thut blinked, having the decency to at least look a little sheepish. He pointed at Marik. "The tombkeeper was sleeping."

Bakura sent Marik a sidelong, snickering glance, before he turned back to Thut. "And you saw fit to leave him?"

"I don't think he'd run off anywhere."

"You thought you'd leave that to chance?"

"I'm not a child," Marik interrupted irritably, sending Bakura a dark stare.

Bakura merely smirked at him. "Oh, believe me, I know. But the principle still stands – you disobeyed a direct order."

Thut shifted on his feet. He thrust out the meat slung over his shoulder in offering.

Bakura accepted it, along with the understanding that Thut would be on first watch for the rest of the week.

 **I'm going to end this chapter here, even though it's really abrupt (I'm sorry!) just because the chapter was getting so long. And there's more I wanna do with the next scene. Soooo look out for an update soon (I promise not to make you wait long~) thanks for reading this far! – Jem**


	12. Chapter 12

**Carrying on straight from where last chapter ended. Thanks sooooo much to people reviewing, especially Miss Tako, YxYY Lover, and of course my wonderful cursiveblade13. You guys are so incredible, and you keep me motivated, so I hope you like this chapter and where this story is going ^.^ Enjoy! – Jem**

 **Warnings for this chapter: steamy citronshipping that gets pretty intense and adult, but nothing explicitly graphic**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! is not mine, and nor are Marik and Bakura**

The meat went quite some way towards placating Bakura's displeasure with Thut. It led to a fairly cheery meal, sitting around the crackling, smoky fire out in the vast reaches of the desert under the wide open sky. The sun drifted towards the horizon, casting the thieves' lengthening shadows far across the sandy plane, reaching out into the encroaching night with an odd sense of foreboding. A chill crept across the sand, rippling their robes with the slightest of breezes.

Marik sat quietly throughout the meal, nibbling delicately on an onion. He had foregone meat this mealtime, his delicate stomach still not entirely used to such raw food, and he was too used to the snickers of the other thieves to be bothered too much by their teasing. He _did_ , however, glare at Bakura when he sensed the Thief King sending him an amused glance.

In fact, it was difficult for Marik to avoid thinking about Bakura throughout the entire evening. His lips were still tingling, and his body felt too warm. His mind was rushing through the memory of what had happened when they were alone, and he found himself lost in an endless stream of warm thoughts. He had never thought the thief could be so interested in him.

Well, that wasn't quite true. Marik had picked up on several stares from Bakura, and their teasing had always had an edge to it – an edge he could never quite place – but Marik had never considered Bakura could be _serious_. Of course, he still might not be. There was no telling that he had actually _meant_ anything by kissing Marik, aside from the obvious physical aspect.

Marik chewed his lips as he thought that over. For some reason, he didn't really like the idea that Bakura might only be after something physical. Although, something about that thought didn't sit quite right, and it didn't fit very well with Bakura's behaviour so far. He seemed to take a genuine interest in Marik, at least, even if that was down to the need for there to be some trust between them.

But more than that – Bakura had told Marik his name.

Marik shook his head, delivering the onion in his hand a savage bite. It didn't do to dwell thinking on such matters, and especially not when he was surrounded by the thieves.

When Marik looked back up, tuning into their conversation, it was to find Seti back in a heated discussion with Ibebi.

"I don't care what you say, with all your poncy _science_ terms," Seti declared loudly, "I trust in my amulet."

"Then you are a fool," Ibebi answered shortly.

"I am _not_!"

"I beg to differ."

Seti fumed. "Just because it's not something you can understand…"

"Oh, I _understand_ just _fine_ ," Ibebi hissed, "But I don't think you do!"

"I do!"

"They're trinkets sold to idiots purely to make a profit."

"Just because your healing can't solve everything…"

"A so-called _magic amulet_ isn't going to help any more!"

"You just don't understand it!" Seti pointed at him, his eyes narrowed and furious. "And the tombkeeper agreed with me, so there!"

"Wait," Marik cut in, holding a hand up, "What am I supposed to have agreed with?"

"You said there were such things as magic amulets!" Seti nodded his head, determined.

"Oh?" The Thief King spoke up for the first time. He leaned forward with languid interest, his grey gaze piercing straight onto Marik.

Marik cursed under his breath. He couldn't have Bakura thinking he knew more about the ways of the Palace than he had let on so far, so Marik kept his face impassive and shrugged lightly. "I think Seti got the wrong end of the stick."

"Thank you!" Ibebi nodded, but Seti looked disgruntled.

"I know what I heard," he muttered, "And you said there was such a thing as magic."

Marik bit his inner cheek, but felt it safer to keep his silence.

Unfortunately, Bakura wasn't willing to leave it there. He leaned back on his hands again, airily saying, "Well, little tombkeeper?"

Marik glanced at him, seemingly without interest. "Yes?"

"Are Seti's musings without foundation?"

Marik gritted his teeth, keeping his silence until the pause became awkward. "…I wouldn't know," he finally answered, watching Bakura carefully.

Bakura arched a brow at him.

Seti huffed, tearing into a chunk of the meat with an angry glare. "I know what I heard," he spoke around his mouthful.

Marik kept his face carefully impassive. He avoided Bakura's gaze, instead making a close study of the sand between his fingers. He didn't want to slip up and give away too much now. He couldn't risk it, not with Bakura so close to him, not when Marik was finally beginning to feel at home here. He couldn't bear the thought of Bakura discovering his connection with the Palace now, knowing the hatred it would cause the thief to feel for him. It was all tied together – everything in Marik's past led to his background in the Palace, and he couldn't let Bakura in that far. He doubted he would survive if Bakura ever discovered his secrets.

And yet, Bakura's eyes remained trained on him for the rest of the evening.

Eventually, as the sun sank ever lower and the desert turned its familiar shade of pale in the eerie moonlight, the thieves began to disappear inside their tents. Marik felt a slow dread creep through his stomach with every one of them that left. Finally, when the flickering firelight grew too dark to read, Menes set aside his last piece of parchment and he crawled inside his tent. Marik sensed rather than saw Bakura move closer as soon as they were left alone.

"Well, little tombkeeper, you can't ignore me anymore."

Marik hissed through his teeth. He turned his head and met Bakura's grey gaze, unsurprised to see that he had indeed approached. Marik drew in a careful breath. "Who says I was avoiding you?"

"Please," Bakura's lazy smirk crept across his lips again, "Don't insult my intelligence."

Marik's eyes narrowed, but he kept his silence, his violet eyes hard.

Bakura gave a low sigh. "Am I going to have to force it out of you?"

"Force what?" Marik answered with instant suspicion.

"Whatever has you so twitchy," Bakura answered, gesturing long and slowly to Marik's tense body. "Something to do with magic, I'm assuming; you were avoiding the conversation enough."

Marik kept his eyes hard. "I don't know what you mean."

"So you _do_ want me to force it out of you." A wicked smirk tugged at the edge of Bakura's mouth, and then he was lunging, forcing Marik down onto his back. Marik gave a startled squeak, but Bakura just leaned over him with a low chuckle. "I _can_ make you tell me if I have to."

"There's nothing to tell," Marik protested as innocently as he could. He reached up to push Bakura off him, feeling his back smart where it met the ground, but Bakura would not move.

"I don't believe you, little tombkeeper." The thief leaned closer, but his expression shifted.

Marik wriggled against the ground. He put his hands on Bakura's shoulders and shoved, and this time, Bakura moved, allowing him to sit up. Marik just barely hid a wince, his fingers going to his lower back before he remembered himself and lowered them again. He glared at Bakura, but then stopped, surprised.

Bakura was looking at him with a burning intensity.

Marik blinked, a little startled at what could have caused that look, but then Bakura snapped out something that made Marik even more confused.

"Show me your back."

Marik's eyes went wide. His mouth dried up, his throat closing, and he could feel his pulse begin thrumming at a faster pace in his throat. He swallowed. "Wh-what did you just…?"

"Turn around." Bakura's voice was low and commanding, straining with something Marik couldn't place.

Marik quickly recovered enough to send Bakura a dark, furious glare. "The hell are you talking about?"

"I am not blind, Marik," Bakura answered with a slightly amused twitch to his lips. "I saw you not letting me anywhere near your back earlier."

Marik's brow furrowed, his glare only strengthening in its intensity. His heart was racing in his chest. He couldn't show Bakura this – there was no way he could allow his scars to be seen by _anyone_ , but least of all the Thief King. Bakura would want nothing more to do with him if he found out.

Bakura gave a loud sigh and moved closer, sending Marik skittering back across the sand. Bakura shook his head. "Why are you still insisting on hiding yourself from me?"

"It's none of your business," Marik spat.

"Perhaps I want to _make_ it my business, little tombkeeper." Without another word, Bakura closed the distance between them and span Marik around, his fingers digging into Marik's shoulders. Marik gave a yelp, thrashing furiously in his grip. He struggled even more when he felt Bakura's warm hands at the base of his robe, pulling the soft material away to reveal the scarred flesh of his back.

Marik froze.

Bakura's grip was firm, keeping him still. It was too late – Marik could feel the cool night air creeping against his stinging flesh, the material of his robe pulled low around his hips. Marik couldn't hold back a shiver. Fear crept as slow as snakes through his veins, holding him locked absolutely still even as panic flooded through his mind.

Bakura could see them.

 _Bakura could see them._

Silence reigned between them.

Then, Bakura spoke, his voice low and vibrant in the rippling desert night. "What is this?"

"None of your business," Marik snapped back instantly, but he sounded thin and reedy even to his own ears.

Silence again, but then Bakura growled, "You need to tell me, Marik."

"I don't need to tell you anything."

" _Marik_." Bakura's voice rippled the air between them, creasing it like crinkled parchment.

Marik faltered.

"When will you understand that I am not a threat to you?" Bakura was close; his voice sounded from right behind Marik, rippling across the scarred flesh of his back. "If you are travelling with me, then I need to be able to trust you."

"You said you don't trust anyone," Marik answered immediately.

"No," amusement twitched in Bakura's tone, "I told _you_ not to trust anyone."

Marik blinked.

"Now," the thief continued lowly, and Marik started when he felt a finger on his bare shoulder, far too close to his scars for comfort. "Tell me."

Marik drew in a slow, careful breath. He tugged out of Bakura's grip, and this time, Bakura allowed it. Marik instantly tugged his robe back up over his back. He could still feel the scars prickling against his flesh, but he steadfastly turned his face away from Bakura and stared out to the desert instead.

At his continuing silence, Bakura decided to try a different tack. He leaned back on his palms and eyed Marik, saying carefully, "Your back must hurt like hell."

Despite himself, Marik felt his lips twitching. "Understatement of the century."

"Shame." Bakura glanced up at the sky. "I almost feel bad for all the times I've thrown you down onto your back now."

Marik twisted his head around to send Bakura a startled stare. "That was almost an apology."

"Almost." Bakura's lips twitched into his lazy smirk again, although his eyes were still burning as he peered intently at Marik. "In return, you can tell me why on earth your back is covered in scars."

Marik flinched automatically. He looked down, shifting against the sand, feeling the warm grains bunch between his fingers as the freezing desert air crowded against him. His back was rippling with pain again, and this time he didn't hide his grimace.

"I am not a fool, Marik," Bakura continued patiently. "I can tell they're hieroglyphs. That was deliberate. Tell me why on earth someone would do that to you."

Marik took in another breath. "It … they…"

"Yes?" Bakura prompted softly when Marik fumbled to a halt.

Marik let out a loud sigh, then twisted to stare away across the desert again. It was easier to speak without Bakura looking at him. "I … was a tombkeeper."

"I realise that," Bakura chuckled softly when the silence held too long.

Marik closed his eyes. "I know. But you probably don't know about the tombkeepers' Initiation."

Bakura's silence prompted Marik to continue.

"It was an ancient practice," he said softly, "One I had thought had been discontinued. Tombkeepers are supposed to 'die' with their Pharaoh, to be buried underground with them and guide them on their way into the afterlife. It came, from that, they were like an extension of the Book of the Dead…"

Bakura's silence turned frosty, and he reached out to grip Marik's arm.

Marik didn't shake him off this time. His eyes were distant, lost in some dark, twisted past that Bakura could only guess at. "It soon came about that the tombkeepers themselves were to have part of the Pharaoh's passage into the afterlife carved into their own flesh. To help the Pharaoh find his way through death."

Bakura hissed. His fingers tightened around Marik's arm.

"It was outlawed years ago," Marik insisted, "That's what I was told before we went into the tomb. But then, on the day I turned sixteen, my Father approached…"

" _He_ did this?" Bakura's tone was almost shocked.

Marik gave a harsh laugh. "Why do you think I had to kill him?"

Bakura was silent, but his burning grey eyes spoke volumes.

"He told me it was time for my Initiation," Marik continued quietly. "I questioned him, of course, but then…"

"Then?"

Marik closed his eyes, shivering. "He showed me his own back. It was carved, just like mine."

Bakura gritted his teeth.

"That took all the fight out of me," Marik opened his eyes again and glared down at the ground. "He scarred me that night. But I wasn't going to accept it. I started to plot, to find a way out, but I knew I would have to kill Father – he would never have let me leave. It took weeks for me to get strong enough to do it…"

"But you did," Bakura finished for him. He smirked a little. "And did a good job of it, too, if I remember correctly."

Marik twisted his head around to face him then. "You can't have missed me by much, if he was still there when you went down."

"Oh?"

"The Pharaoh was sending men to clean up after me the day I got exiled."

"Ah." Bakura leaned back again, releasing Marik's arm as he gazed up at the sky. "Then it's a good job I wasn't any later. Or earlier, for that matter, or _you_ would not have survived the encounter."

Marik gave a harsh laugh. "I'd have put up a fight."

"I don't doubt that." Bakura's grey eyes glittered at him, sparkling in the cool starlight.

Marik twisted away from him again.

Bakura narrowed his eyes. "You still haven't told me everything."

"What else is there?" Marik answered carefully.

"What did you do after you killed your father?"

"Got exiled," Marik answered dryly, flicking another glance over to Bakura, "And dragged out here in chains, and then your men found me, and you know the rest."

"Well, yes," Bakura amended, and his grey eyes were still sparkling as he edged a little nearer to Marik. Marik twitched back automatically, feeling his heart begin to thunder in his chest again, but Bakura did not lean back this time. Instead, he slid a little closer, placing two fingers on Marik's chin to force him to meet his eyes. "But how did you come to be exiled?"

Marik's eyes slid away. Bakura's fingers were warm against his chin, and the scent of the thief was distracting, but Marik knew he had to keep a cool head. He still could not risk Bakura finding out his connection with the Palace.

"Marik." Bakura's tongue wrapped its way devilishly around Marik's name, and the thief leaned closer still. Marik found his eyes drawn straight back to Bakura's face, gazing at the jagged scar running down his cheek.

Marik drew a breath. "I went to the Pharaoh as soon as I was free. I shouldn't have done, but I didn't want to risk a life in the desert alone, not with jackals and thieves lying in wait."

Bakura smirked. "Wise decision."

"Or not," Marik answered bitterly. "The Pharaoh exiled me on sight. At least he didn't kill me, though I think Seto wanted to…"

"Priest Seto?" Bakura interrupted suddenly, and his eyes glistened with interest.

Marik flinched, his face setting into a stern expression. He couldn't afford to slip up now, but he hadn't expected the thief to know Seto's name. "I think so," Marik answered carefully.

Bakura continued to peer at him with keen interest, but he allowed it to drop for now, leaning back and gesturing for Marik to continue.

"I didn't exactly tell the Pharaoh the truth," Marik admitted after a moment. "I told him Father died from a snake bite. But he still exiled me."

There was a moment of silence before Bakura spoke, and his voice was dark and vibrant. "The Pharaoh is not a merciful man."

Marik paused. He turned his head to see Bakura gazing down at the sand with his face lined and creased in anger. For a moment, he looked far older than his years. Marik traced the scar that marred the right side of his face, watching the way it twisted and flexed with his emotions, his grey eyes dancing with inner fire.

Marik felt his stomach twist. Curiosity flexed through his veins, and he dared to ask, "What makes you say that?"

Bakura's gaze crashed onto Marik's, and Marik suddenly found himself captivated, held still in Bakura's sight. His breath stopped in his throat. Bakura continued to stare at him for several moments, until finally, he answered, "I have experienced a lot in my lifetime."

"I don't doubt that," Marik eventually replied, when it became clear that the thief wasn't going to say anything more. He sniffed. "Still, you know a lot about me, and I know nothing about you."

Bakura's lazy smirk stretched his lips again, though he held Marik's gaze. "As it should be."

"That's hardly fair," Marik grouched. He drew his knees into his chest and laid his chin atop them, keeping his eyes trained straight on Bakura's scarred face.

Bakura arched a brow. "I fail to see how. Besides, you _are_ still keeping secrets from me, Marik, don't think I don't know that."

Marik flinched despite himself. He hardened his eyes and didn't deny it, continuing to stare straight at Bakura. "You still know some of my story. I know _nothing_ about you."

"Not quite true," Bakura answered airily. "You have my name."

Marik blinked, stopping short. Of course, Bakura had told him his name – something that the other thieves apparently did not know, aside from Anen. He couldn't help but wonder why the thief had trusted him with that, not that it helped Marik in identifying him at all. He met the thief's eyes again and nodded slowly. "Yes, I know you're Bakura, but I don't know anything else."

Bakura smirked again, his grey eyes dancing. "As I do not know your last name."

Marik glared. "I can't tell you that."

"And why not?" Bakura leaned closer. "I can only think you have some great secret to hide, but I assure you, it will not be any worse than what I have heard before."

Marik glared down at the sand, but he kept his silence this time.

A sigh left Bakura's lips. "Come now. It's only fair I have your name for mine."

"Marik," Marik answered shortly.

Bakura chuckled. "Now, you know that isn't what I meant." He leaned closer when Marik still failed to answer, placing two fingers back on his chin and lifting his face so that Marik met his eyes. Despite himself, Marik felt a shiver slide down his spine. He swallowed, sensing a spark between them once more, and remembered how chapped and warm Bakura's lips had been against his.

Bakura arched a brow at him. "Most men have given me all their secrets by now."

"Would most men have kissed you by now, too?" Marik scoffed in return, keeping his expression stern as he glared at Bakura.

Much to his surprise, Bakura merely chuckled at that. His fingers lifted to caress the side of Marik's face, until his palm soon rested against Marik's cheek. His grey eyes danced as they met Marik's. "No, I have a feeling that's just you."

Marik blinked, surprise crossing his features despite himself.

"Not many know my name, either," Bakura continued slowly, "And yet, you still hide yourself from me."

"I don't have much choice," Marik muttered sullenly.

Bakura peered closer to him, leaning so close that Marik felt surrounded by his scent. The thief hummed. "What could be so bad you feel you have to hide it? I already know you murdered your Father."

Marik flinched.

"And now, I know you had good reason." Bakura slid closer to Marik, his free hand sliding around to ghost across his back. Even through the material of the robe, he could feel the ridges of the scars.

Marik shuddered under the touch and squeezed his eyes shut. His back smarted. It felt completely alien to have someone else aware of his back, someone else able to feel the scars, and yet it felt oddly right that Bakura should be the one to discover it.

"Tell me, Marik," the thief murmured softly, his voice much closer to Marik's ear than it had been a few minutes before.

Marik opened his eyes again, slowly, to find Bakura staring straight at him. Another ripple shook down his spine. For a moment, Marik was tempted to speak – he was slowly becoming entangled in Bakura's web, feeling himself tempted to move closer, to press nearer, to trust this man with everything.

But he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. The minute Bakura found out that he had a Priestess for a sister, Marik would be as good as dead. If not worse.

So, Marik took a deep breath, met the thief's eyes, and shook his head.

Bakura's eyes narrowed. "Marik…"

Before he could get any further, Marik leaned closer, lifting his own hand to rest against the scar on Bakura's right cheek.

Bakura froze.

"You know the story of my scars," Marik spoke softly, "But I don't know yours."

Bakura's eyes hardened, but he didn't pull away. In fact, he leaned into Marik's touch.

"If you won't tell me, how can I tell you?" Marik finally continued.

Bakura gave a low, troubled sigh. "Because I am your leader."

"And I want it to stay that way," Marik answered without thinking.

Bakura's brows shot up. He leaned closer still, lips just inches from Marik's, and his tone remained sincere as he spoke again. "Do you? Not so long ago, I think you wished yourself far from here."

"Not anymore," Marik shook his head, slowly coming to the realisation that actually, he felt safer here than he had anywhere else in his lifetime.

Bakura's lazy smirk lifted his lips again. "And yet, you don't trust me with your name?"

"I can't."

"Why not, Marik?"

"I just can't."

A patient sigh slipped through Bakura's lips. "It _is_ in your best interests to tell me."

"I don't think so." Marik shook his head again, and his fingers traced down the ridges of Bakura's scar. He could feel the thief tremble. "I want to stay here with you, but it means I have to keep my secrets."

Bakura's brow furrowed. "If you still think you can't trust me…"

"Hush," Marik murmured.

Bakura glared. "Marik, don't…"

Before he could say anymore, Marik leaned closer and gently pressed his lips to Bakura's again. He had been itching to do this ever since the other thieves had left, and it would be safe, his body craving to be close to Bakura's once more, to feel his warm arms wrapped tight around him. Especially now that he knew about the scars; Marik didn't have to hide them or fear them anymore.

Bakura pulled back after a moment, his grey eyes dancing and his lips twitching up. "If you're trying to distract me…"

"Depends if it works or not," Marik interrupted quickly and leaned forwards to kiss him again.

Bakura tried to pull back again, but Marik was insistent, and honestly it felt so good to have him close that Bakura didn't take much persuading before he relented and started kissing back. His arms found their way around Marik's shoulders, once more feeling the ridges of the scars, his movements mirroring perfectly Marik's fingers as they traced down the scar on his cheek.

Marik was smirking into the kiss; Bakura could feel it. With a growl, he wrenched himself free and pushed Marik down against the sand, crawling over him with a glint in his eye. "If you're going to distract me, you have to do it my way."

Marik's eyes flared up at him. He reached up to wind his arms around Bakura's neck, pulling him down for another kiss. Bakura gladly responded. His warm body pressed close to Marik's, his musky scent everywhere, and Marik relished in the chance to feel something again, to be so close, to feel the way his body moved and responded to Bakura's every touch. His back smarted against the ground, but he barely noticed, only wriggling slightly.

Still, Bakura noticed. He pulled back for just long enough to roll Marik onto his side, lying beside him and facing him. Marik leaned in and kissed him again, and Bakura pulled him closer, trailing his hands down Marik's back, to his hips. Marik almost gasped when he felt Bakura's thumb trace the jutting bone of his hip, his fingers daring to spread lower to caress his thigh.

Marik opened his eyes and pulled back.

Bakura watched him, grey eyes dancing, his hand still teasingly pressed against Marik's thigh. When he spoke, his voice was a low croon. "Do you want to?"

Marik felt his stomach twist at those words. Fire was running through his veins, fire to match the burning in Bakura's grey eyes, and there was nothing he craved more than the thief's touch. His mind felt cloudy, but he was sure. He had never experienced anything like this before, but his hormones were screaming at him, telling him that this was right, that he would know what to do if he just went with it.

So he did.

"Yes," Marik answered, his voice cracking just a little, and he leaned over to kiss Bakura again.

…

The next morning dawned sleepily for Marik.

The harsh bright red of rising sunlight splashed across his closed eyelids, warming him gently from the cold desert night. He stirred with a soft groan. Slowly, he came to the realisation that this was one of the first times he was waking up naturally since his exile, without the horror of a nightmare clinging to his lids, or the Thief King shaking him awake for another sparring session.

Thinking of the Thief King…

Marik was slowly becoming aware that his body was pressed close to something warm and inviting. Something warm and inviting that smelled _wonderful_. He breathed it in for a while, allowing himself to relax in the warmth, before he opened his eyes.

Bakura was lying beside him.

Marik felt a small shiver ripple down his body, and he couldn't stop a smile from lifting his lips. He was lying beside the Thief King, their arms around each other, his head buried in the thief's chest. He could feel a soft movement through his hair, like Bakura was stroking it, and he couldn't help but lean into the touch. Marik closed his eyes again and tightened his hold around Bakura's waist. In return, he felt the hand in his hair pause, only to begin moving slowly through the strands again as Bakura tightened his other arm about Marik's shoulders. Marik nuzzled against him with a contented, sleepy murmur.

They remained like that, peaceful, until there was an unwelcome rustle from one of the other tents, accompanied by a sudden snort. "Looking comfortable, chief!"

Marik flinched, squeezing his eyes shut. He burrowed further into Bakura's side, unwilling to move yet, despite Seti's insistent voice.

He felt rather than heard a low chuckle rumble through Bakura's chest. "Cat's out of the bag. Time to move, Marik."

The blanket wrapped around them shifted, but Marik grumbled, opening his eyes just enough to send Bakura a glare. His stomach flipped when he saw Bakura's grey eyes dancing down at him again.

Seti stood over them with another chortle at his lips. "Or you could stay there. I'm sure the others would like seeing such a pretty sight."

Bakura threw the blanket at him.

Marik squeaked at the sudden loss of warmth, and then instantly wriggled to find his clothes. He tugged them on as fast as he could, feeling colour rising to his cheeks despite how much he willed it away. When he span around, it was to find Bakura's eyes sparking with amusement at him. "Self-conscious?"

"Much," Marik snapped back, "And you could have a sense of decorum, too."

"Oh, everyone will know already," Bakura answered with an airy wave of his hand.

"Too right." Seti spoke up easily from the fire, where he was stoking up the flames again to cook himself a breakfast. "You were loud enough last night."

Marik stopped short, feeling his innards twist. " _You heard…?!"_

Bakura merely snorted with laughter. He had also recovered his clothes, not that his red cloak covered much in the first place, and he took a seat beside Seti at the fireside.

Seti was grinning. "Little tombkeeper looks upset."

"I'm sure he can handle it," Bakura answered easily with a sly wink to Marik. "I'm certainly hoping for a repeat, anyway."

Marik sent him the deepest, darkest glare he could possibly muster before settling down onto the sand beside him. Bakura snorted again, reaching out an arm to wrap around Marik's shoulders, and Marik nestled against him readily enough.

"You're just too easy to tease, Marik," Bakura breathed into his ear.

Marik gave a soft shiver, though he kept his voice firm. "Yes, well, I _will_ get my own back."

"I don't doubt it." Bakura's low voice held a vibrant chuckle. Marik couldn't keep back a slight smile as he leaned into the Thief King's side.

The other thieves resurfaced soon enough, but no others commented on the new closeness between Marik and the Thief King. Marik was sure they noticed, though – after all, Bakura didn't remove his arm from around Marik's shoulders once, even when they started to eat.

Menes and Ibebi went to the markets that day, and Anen and Seti went scouting, giving Bakura a day to rest at the camp as his stallion was still exhausted. Thut was off hunting again, and Marik had to admit that he appreciated the time alone with the Thief King. Although Bakura did make him spar some more, rather than just lazily resting around, which Marik was more than keen to do.

"You still need to crouch more," Bakura commanded. His knife was in his hand, blade gleaming in the sunlight, and he was advancing on Marik with slow, careful steps. "Lean into the sand, that's it. Otherwise it's a simple task for me to knock you over."

"I'd appreciate you not doing that," Marik shot back through gritted teeth. His back was still smarting, scars burning from the amount of contact they had had with the sandy ground.

Bakura smirked at him. "So stop me." He flew forward again, and Marik blocked as best he could, spinning on his side in an attempt to dodge Bakura's flailing knife. He managed to keep to his feet for a good five minutes, constantly dodging and blocking, until Bakura finally got the better of him and Marik found himself once again on the sandy desert ground.

"Better," Bakura commented from his place above Marik. "But you need to stop being so defensive."

Marik released an affronted huff. "Maybe if you stopped attacking me…!"

"I'm training you," Bakura answered easily, "And going easy on you, too."

Marik glared at him. "You've been doing this a lot longer than I have."

"It shows."

"Bakura!"

The Thief King merely chuckled, the low sound rumbling through his chest. He leaned down closer to Marik, his grey eyes dancing just inches from Marik's own, and he breathed, "I could hardly have some criminal or wild animal hurting you, now could I?"

Marik almost shivered, but he arched a brow. "What, you saying you actually care about what happens to me?"

"But of course." The knife had disappeared from Bakura's grip, replaced by his fingers tracing a slow path down Marik's side. "As I do all my men."

"Yeah, and you fuck them all too, I bet."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Marik smirked up at him, reached up, and pulled Bakura down for a kiss. He rolled to get his back away from the sand, nestling close to the thief's chest and humming with satisfaction when he felt Bakura hold him close.

They remained like that until the thunder of hooves disturbed their peace.

Marik released a frustrated sigh. He tried to sit up, only to find Bakura's arms too tight around him. He whacked his chest. "Hey, let me up."

"No."

"Bakura!"

"Don't feel like it." The Thief King didn't let go, merely turning his head to eye the approaching riders. It was Seti and Anen, but they were both breathing heavily, and their horse's sides were slicked with sweat and panting in the desert sun. Seti looked as bright as ever, but Anen's face was grim.

Bakura sat up, dislodging Marik without a word. Marik frowned, prepared to grumble, but then he too caught sight of Anen's face and his throat closed up.

"What is it?" Bakura asked immediately.

"Guards," Anen answered stiffly.

"From the Palace?"

"I counted seven."

"This far out?!"

"That's what I said," Seti interrupted, "But apparently they're broadening their net."

Bakura cursed under his breath. He leapt to his feet, commanding tersely, "Fetch the horses and pack up the tents. We'll meet Ibebi and Menes at the markets."

"What about Thut?" Marik asked. He hadn't seen the thieves so tense and business-like before, and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel a slight twinge of fear.

Bakura looked at him calmly. "We'll have to wait for him to return, and leave as soon as he does."

"We may not have long," Anen warned in a tired voice. "They weren't far behind us."

Bakura cursed again. "We'll give him half an hour. Then he might catch us at the markets." He turned, beginning to gather up their supplies. "Get a move on. We can't leave any trace behind."

Seti and Anen instantly set about packing up the tents and the campsite. Marik helped where he could, not allowing the slight fear settling in his gut to show anywhere on his face.

 **Again, a bit of an abrupt end, my apologies. This chapter took ages to write, and it also turned out really long xD I hope I got the tone ok, and it was interesting enough to read. Things may get slightly angsty from here on out, but it'll be fun! Thanks so much for reading this far – Jem**


	13. Chapter 13

**Here we go again! Thanks so much to everyone still reading. And in response to some of your reviews … yeah, this fic does get quite angsty. Perhaps I should have warned about that before xD But I hope it won't put you off reading the rest – if you like fluff and angst then this fic should be for you. Enjoy this chapter! – Jem**

 **Warnings for this chapter: not much really. A tad bit of violence? And some citronshipping**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! is Kazuki Takahashi's, not mine**

Thankfully, Thut arrived at the camp just before they were ready to set off. He understood the situation almost immediately. Indeed, the practice with which all the thieves dismantled the camp and made ready to leave made Marik think that they were more than used to getting on the move quickly.

As soon as Thut was ready, Bakura pulled Marik up onto his horse and instantly vaulted on behind him. "Anen, take the left, Seti the right," he ordered tersely. "Thut, at the rear."

The thieves fell into place easily as Bakura kicked his horse's flanks and they went galloping across the desert once more. The sand whipped passed them at a furious rate, and Marik tipped his head back, staring up at the sky as the desert flashed by. He had _missed_ this sensation. Never before had he felt this free. Marik gripped the horse's mane. It had been quite a while since they were last riding, and whilst he was enjoying it, he soon felt his muscles stiffening, unused to the uncomfortable position. He shifted, wincing slightly.

"Will you stop wriggling."

Bakura's low, amused voice breathed into Marik's ear, his arms close around him to stop him from falling.

Marik shifted with a low hiss. "I'm not exactly used to this."

"I told you that your riding needs work."

Marik sighed. "Yes, so you keep saying." He shifted again, wincing at the uncomfortable motion of the horse's gallop.

Bakura rolled his eyes. "Just relax. You're too tense."

"Easy for you to say," Marik muttered.

"I'm serious. You'll be much easier if you do."

Marik heaved a low sigh, though he could feel his lips twitching upwards. He allowed his body to slump slightly, loosening the grip of his legs, and leaned back against Bakura's warm chest.

Bakura arched a brow.

"Before you say anything," Marik cut in, "You _did_ tell me to relax."

Bakura chuckled. "I forgot how much you enjoy falling asleep on me."

Marik snickered. "I think _you_ fell asleep on _me_ last night."

"Payback," Bakura answered easily. He removed one arm from the reins and instead looped it around Marik's stomach, drawing him back even closer.

Marik hummed, content, but twisted around to send Bakura a questioning glance. "Shouldn't you be steering?"

"My stallion knows the route better than I do," Bakura snorted.

Marik smirked, accepting that answer, and snuggled even more comfortably against Bakura's chest. Bakura's fingers were warm against his stomach, trailing smooth pathways across his smooth skin and sending slight shivers bursting through Marik's veins. He relaxed even further, and he had to admit, the riding was more comfortable this way.

Bakura nestled his head against Marik's, breathing in his newly-familiar scent. The golden strands glistened in the sunlight, like the brightest of treasures that Bakura had ever had the fortune to steal. He couldn't deny how pleasant Marik's warmth was against his chest, or the slight twitch in his stomach every time Marik smiled at him. Bakura's brows furrowed a little. Those feelings could prove troublesome in the future, but for now, he could do little but feel them, and see what hell they led him to.

They continued to ride hard until they neared the markets to collect Menes and Ibebi. It was unexpected to see any of the Pharaoh's men so far out into the desert as this, but Bakura did not for a second question what the eyes of his own men had seen, and he was unwilling to take the risk. Especially as they had Marik with them. Bakura suspected that there was still something to Marik's story that he had not told, and he was unwilling to risk letting Marik be seen by the guards.

When they arrived at the markets, Marik's eyes grew round. There were a multitude of stalls surrounding a small, square patch of the desert, with a few huts behind them that were presumably part of a small village. The smell of cooking – actual _cooking_ – filled the air, accompanied by the loud shouts and catcalls and discussions and movements of the swirling crowds of people thronging through the tiny, rough streets.

Marik had never seen anything like it.

He leapt off the stallion as soon as they drew to a halt, not even bothering to seek Bakura's assistance. Instead, he span around, taking in everything he possibly could. The scent was incredible, reminding him of his days as a child when he lived above ground, exploring the market every week with Isis. She had always dragged him to the spice stall so she could fish out her favourite flavours, but then Marik had forced her to take him to the jewellery stands, so he could see all the gold. He searched the market they were currently standing in until he found a jewellery stall not far off, with a woman covered head-to-toe in black standing over it. Marik grinned and started forwards eagerly.

"Not so fast, Marik."

Bakura's low voice sounded amused, and a warm arm gripped Marik's elbow. Marik turned with a raised brow to see Bakura smirking at him.

Marik sighed. "Do you not trust me?"

"It's more that the stalls could be dangerous," Bakura replied evasively.

Marik narrowed his eyes. "Or you don't want me talking to other people."

Bakura's face remained impassive.

Marik pulled out of his grip with an irritable huff. "Do you seriously still think I'm going to try running off?"

"I would hope not," Bakura answered, and amusement twitched at his lips, "Especially as I could catch you in seconds."

Marik scowled. "So there's no harm in it, is there?" Without another word, he turned away from Bakura and flounced towards the jewellery stand. Sometimes, Bakura's arrogance grated at Marik. It would have been over-the-top and irritatingly overconfident, had it not been true. Marik had seen for himself – many times – how quick Bakura's reflexes were, and Marik was under no illusion that if he tried to escape, Bakura would find him again easily and probably toy with him until he was back with the group.

Part of the problem was, of course, that Marik no longer wanted to leave.

The thought of not being at Bakura's side was an alien one now. All Marik had to do was think back to waking up in the Thief King's arms that morning, and a bright smile lit his lips as warmth trickled sluggishly through his veins. Even with the other thieves' teasing, it had been worth it. Marik knew he would seek that warmth every day, and he had a feeling that Bakura would let him.

But none of that changed the fact that Marik wanted to explore the markets.

He took his time in walking towards the jewellery stand, glancing around at the other stalls as well as listening to snippets of conversation from the crowds around him. Marik had never seen this many people in one place, not since his time as a little boy in the Palace, and even then they had always been surrounded by guards. This was the first time he had been somewhere truly freeing.

As he approached the jewellery stand, he soon felt a warm arm grip his elbow again, and Bakura's low voice sounded in his ear. "You're lucky I like you, or I would have to make an example of you for your insolence back there."

Marik turned his head just enough to send Bakura a sharp glare. "Please. You were being insufferable."

Bakura's grey eyes danced at him. "I don't let people talk to me that way."

"I'm not 'people'," Marik griped in response.

"Indeed, you are not." Bakura's low, dark tone was rippling with amusement. He had pulled his beige hood up over his distinctive white hair, so his scarred face was deep in shadow. His hand was warm around Marik's elbow as they walked slowly on through the crowds.

Bakura saw the direction Marik was headed in and gave a slight scoff. "Do you not have enough gold already?"

"No," Marik answered snippily.

"I've seen your bracelets."

"Nowhere near enough," Marik sniffed. "I used to have a good pile of jewellery."

"Oh? And where is it now?"

Marik smiled thinly. "Exile isn't very good for keeping expensive things."

"I noticed." There was laughter in Bakura's tone, and he looped an easy arm around Marik's shoulders, leaning close enough to murmur, "But if your jewellery was in the tomb, then it's probably part of _my_ collection now, hm?"

Marik's eyes narrowed. "No, it isn't, actually."

A look of surprise crossed Bakura's face, and he pulled them to a sharp halt. Marik sent him a quizzical look, and then cursed himself inwardly. He shouldn't have said that.

Bakura shot him a keen glance. "Not from the tomb?"

"…We weren't allowed to take valuables down there," Marik answered slowly, obvious reluctance in his tone.

Bakura arched a brow. "Indeed? Where is it, then?"

"…Where I lived before."

"And where was that, hm?"

Marik kept his silence. He could feel Bakura's grey eyes searing straight into his soul, sense the way he was searching for an answer. But this, Marik could never share. So he tilted his chin up and stared Bakura down, refusing to relent, no matter how much he may want to. He would be killed if Bakura ever found out.

Bakura continued to stare at him.

As Marik kept his silence, Bakura clicked his tongue in irritation and whirled away from Marik. "You have far too many secrets, little tombkeeper."

Marik started at that name, glaring. "Do _not_ call me that!"

"Why?" Bakura tossed over his shoulder. "You insist on keeping your past held to your chest, then you keep _all_ of it."

Marik glared after him, fury twitching the features of his face as he stomped after Bakura. "I don't want that title."

"Then _move on_ from your past," Bakura shot back. There was true anger in his tone for the first time when directed at Marik, and Marik began to see a glimpse of the Thief King, the man who had the other thieves running scared.

Marik balled his hands into fists and glared. "I don't keep secrets because I want to."

"Then why?" Bakura span around to face him again, red cloak flaring around his ankles. His grey eyes were set and burning, his lips twisted into a frown.

Marik swallowed. He chose his words carefully, wary not to give too much away. "I know it's safer this way."

Bakura's grey eyes watched him keenly, analysing, and Marik for a moment feared that he may have revealed too much. The thief's expression was sharp, assured, the scar on his right cheek just visible beneath the shadowed cowls of his hood. His eyes were searing straight into Marik, perhaps seeing more than Marik would have willed.

"Safer for who, hm?" Bakura finally spoke, his tone low and alluring. "For you?"

Marik's lips thinned, but he kept his silence.

"Because," Bakura continued delicately, "I usually find it safer to know _exactly_ who my men are. Especially one as close to me as you are turning out."

Marik swallowed, his mind dipping unbidden back to that morning, when he awoke in the thief's arms. He felt a shiver slide down his spine, but he kept his eyes hard. "You can't expect that when you tell me so little about yourself."

Bakura's expression shifted slightly. For a moment – just a moment – Marik thought he caught a flash of hurt spring across Bakura's features, but then he settled back into his usual lazy smirk, mask firmly in place. "Perhaps you are not wrong."

"And I'm not one of your men," Marik added slowly.

Bakura arched a brow at him.

"Not like the others," Marik persisted. "I didn't seek you out."

"…No," Bakura answered finally, "You didn't. But does it follow that you want to leave?"

Marik shook his head. His violet eyes trained onto Bakura's, and he reached out in a moment of courage to take Bakura's hand. "I thought you would know that by now."

Bakura didn't move for a moment, but then his fingers tightened around Marik's and his smirk stretched into a grin.

Marik grinned back. He turned and tugged Bakura to his side, leading them on towards the jewellery stall. "I still need some gold, though."

Bakura chuckled softly. "Somehow, I thought you'd have expensive taste."

"Perhaps." Marik sent him an ardent look. "I only go for the best."

"Oho, do you now?" Bakura snorted and tugged him closer. "Then what are you doing, fraternising with a lowly thief?"

"Oh, only the King of Thieves could have me."

"Well said." Bakura paused for a moment to tug his hood up further over his head. "Only be careful when you say that sort of thing in public."

Marik dipped his head in a nod to show that he had heard, but his eyes were too focused on the jewellery to pay any real attention. They were near enough to the stall now that the gold glistened in the sunlight, glinting enticingly from bracelets and anklets and necklaces and earrings. Marik's fingers were already itching.

"Want me to steal you something?" Bakura asked in his low voice.

Marik shook his head, giving a light snort. "Not everything has to be stolen."

"You have no money," Bakura pointed out sagely.

Marik smirked. "Watch and learn, Thief King."

Without another word, Marik dropped Bakura's hand and stalked up to the stall owner, his eyes bright and his mouth lifting into an innocent smile. When he spoke, his voice was lighter, lifted high without a shred of his usual cynicism. "Oh, wow!" He reached for a bracelet, lightly skimming his fingers over the silken gold. It was warmed from the sunlight, glinting irresistibly.

The lady behind the stall sent him a sunny smile. "Can I help you, young master?"

"It's just all so beautiful!" Marik ensured to keep his voice high and bright, excitable.

"Why, thank you, young master." The woman looked suitably satisfied. "Is there a particular piece that would catch your eye?"

"Well, I have three sisters…" Marik trailed off a little, glancing down the row. His face fell slightly. "I'd never be able to afford to get them all something, though … perhaps one bracelet they could share? It's all so beautiful, I wouldn't know how to choose…"

"Well, let's see what we can do." The woman looked flattered, her eyes gleaming with pride.

Marik moved down the stall, complimenting all the pieces in his bright, airy voice. His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, his tone innocent as he rambled on about his sisters, how they would like different pieces, how that necklace was perfect but wouldn't fit the smallest one, but that bracelet would suit her so perfectly…

Eventually, the woman relented, and allowed him to have all three pieces he picked out. All he gave her in return was a sunny smile and a kiss on the cheek, along with many thanks and promises to return with all three of his sisters one day in the near future. The woman was flushing darkly by the time Marik turned to join Bakura's side again.

Bakura took his elbow with a chuckle, steering him away. "That was a lesson in haggling."

Marik smirked. "Is that a compliment?"

"Almost." Bakura's grey eyes were gleaming as he sent Marik a sidelong glance. "How long have you been doing that?"

Marik shrugged lightly. "I always haggled as a boy."

Bakura nodded slowly, his smirk spreading across his face. "Then perhaps you've been a thief almost as long as I have."

"What?" Marik stopped short, staring. "I am not a thief!"

"That was as good a steal as any I've ever done," Bakura chuckled.

Marik stared at him.

"You paid only with your charm," Bakura pointed out with a grin. "Which is a dangerous weapon, I admit … only you cannot frown upon my profession now I know that yours is the same."

Marik settled on glaring at him.

It didn't take them much longer until they found Ibebi and Menes busy at one of the stalls, trading the gold stolen from the tomb. Marik and Bakura soon joined them. Bakura's eyes sparked at the amount of money jingling away in Menes' many purses as he tucked them away among the saddlebags of his grey mare. Ibebi soon wandered off again, murmuring something about wanting to check the healing supplies here, whilst Seti and Thut went to get some cooked meat. Menes stayed with Marik and Bakura at the horses.

"That's nice jewellery, Marik," Menes mentioned. "Did you pick it up here?"

"Yes," Marik nodded, ignoring Bakura's chuckle from beside him.

"Well, it's nice."

"Thank you, Menes."

Bakura's grey eyes danced in Marik's direction, but Marik steadfastly stared away in the opposite direction, remaining resolute.

Seti and Thut soon returned, but their hands were close by their swords and Anen was with them. "Guards again," he said tersely as soon as they were within earshot. "We should get moving."

Bakura's expression instantly shifted, no more glint of amusement shining from his grey eyes. Instead, he nodded, beckoning Marik over to the black stallion. "Someone fetch Ibebi."

It took them next to no time to be galloping through the desert once again.

Marik shifted on the back of the black stallion, the muscles in his legs and back complaining about riding again. The market was little more than a receding dot on the horizon behind them, opening out to more desert surrounding them every which way they turned. The sun beat down relentlessly, crisping the sweat on Marik's light skin. He retreated under his hood.

"Here." Bakura's voice muttered low to his ear, and a water skin was pressed into Marik's hand.

He took a grateful drink, murmuring, "Thanks," as he passed it back to Bakura.

Bakura nodded once. Marik could tell that there was something different about this ride – the Thief King kept the pace fast, racing across the desert at a steady gallop that was clearly pushing their already tired horses. Bakura's expression was set and determined, too, with none of his usual amusement glinting out of his eyes.

Marik swallowed. "Is it normal for the Palace to have guards this far out?"

Bakura glanced down at him once, slightly surprised, before he shook his head. "No. Not at all."

"Mm." Marik chewed his lip, flicking a glance around the desert. "Why do you think they're here?"

"Honestly, I have no idea," Bakura answered with a slight tension in his tone.

"Maybe they heard reports you were nearby."

"That hasn't caused them to send guards out before."

"Well, the Pharaoh must be wary of you," Marik mused aloud. "He knows you're the greatest threat to him."

Bakura arched a brow. "Does he? And you know this how?"

Marik blinked, cursing himself inside his head. He masked his irritation behind a smooth tone, though. "My Father used to get letters, mostly reports from the Priests. They always mentioned you."

"Did they now?" Bakura, to Marik's surprise, gave a low, rasping chuckle. "I suppose I should be flattered."

Marik snorted despite himself. "Only you would take that as a compliment."

"Indeed," Bakura answered smoothly. "I suppose you knew of me when you were first brought to my camp, then. No wonder you looked so terrified."

"I was not _terrified_ ," Marik instantly bristled.

"You certainly looked it to me, Marik." Bakura gave a low chuckle and rested his chin on Marik's shoulder.

Marik merely scowled in response.

They continued riding into the desert until a distant sound similar to thunder reached their ears. Bakura lifted a hand, calling an abrupt halt, and twisted around on his stallion's bare back to glance behind them through the desert. Marik gripped the stallion's mane, keeping himself steady as Bakura's motions threatened to dislodge him.

"Problem, chief?" Seti called from their left.

"Hush," Bakura stated irritably.

They kept their silence, listening as the sound like distant thunder drew closer and closer. The echoing noise of the desert distorted the sound, making it sound like it came from all directions when in reality it was only coming from behind them.

A short while longer, a new sight crested the horizon.

A mass of Palace guards, their horse's hooves thundering over the sand.

Bakura cursed. He instantly drove his heels into his horse's flanks, sending him galloping on across the desert once again with the other thieves fanning out on his either side. The thunder of hooves behind them continued. Marik felt the cold fingers of fear wrap around his heart, clutching at his chest and freezing the breath in his lungs. He drew in a shuddering breath. There was no way he could allow himself to get caught, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing any of the thieves, either. He was under no illusion of exactly what would happen to them if they were found by Palace guards.

A strange snap sounded, accompanied by a foreign sort of _whiz_ that whipped clean and straight through the air.

"Duck!" Bakura roared, suddenly leaning close to Marik, forcing him to lie almost flat against the stallion's great black flanks. ""Arrows!"

Marik's heart almost stopped.

Another _thwack_ sounded from behind them, and this time Marik saw the arrow as it flew to land in the sand in front of them. He could hear Bakura's dark, low curse again, sense the way his warm body shivered in the baking desert air.

Marik twisted his head just enough to speak. "It's nearing nightfall," he hissed, "They won't be able to shoot with precision in the dark."

"We won't be able to keep riding until dusk," Bakura growled back.

Marik thought fast. "So find somewhere dark we can stay."

Silence hung between them again, until Bakura suddenly gave a low, throaty chuckle. "Not bad, Marik." He sat up again, lifting a hand to steer the men around to the left. They thundered on after him, galloping across the desert, always accompanied by the ever-present _twang_ of the arrows behind them. One flew so close that it rippled the sleeve of Bakura's red cloak and grazed Marik's cheek before landing safely in the sand by the stallion's hooves.

"To the caves!" Bakura roared, and there were grunts and nods of understanding from the other thieves. They careered sharply left, cutting a wide, sweeping arc across the desert sands, the Palace guards still in hot pursuit. Arrows rained down, and then there was a harsh cry from directly to their right.

Bakura pulled the stallion up short, forcing him to rear his front legs up and forcing a sharp cry from Marik's lips. He grabbed at the reins, turning to send Bakura an evil glare, when he saw what had caused them to stop so suddenly.

Menes was lying slumped forward in his saddle, with blood pooling around him and colour draining from his skin.

Bakura lunged sideways, steering his stallion expertly to run beside Menes' terrified grey. "Grab her reins!" He ordered Marik, his tone burning.

Marik reacted without thinking. He lunged sideways until he was almost sliding off the black stallion's back, and only Bakura's arm slung around his waist kept him from falling heavily onto the sand. Marik made a wild grab for the grey's reins, missed, and then tried again. He succeeded this time, and managed to lead her in a quick gallop to keep pace with the black stallion.

"Hold her steady," Bakura ordered. He reached over, his dark brown hand closing next to Marik's on the grey's reins. "Let her go, now."

Marik stared at him. "What are you…?"

"Trust me, Marik." Bakura's grey eyes burned into him, and Marik felt his mouth go dry.

After another moment that seemed to stretch for an age, Marik nodded and released the grey.

"Hold my stallion," Bakura ordered, and just like that his arms disappeared from around Marik and he was vaulting, leaping off his stallion and onto Menes' grey mare.

Marik gave a shout of surprise when he suddenly found himself alone on the giant black stallion. His fingers automatically closed around the reins. He twisted his head around to see Bakura riding next to him, on the grey mare, with Menes' worryingly still form in front of him.

"Go!" Bakura shouted to him. "The guards are still behind us!"

Marik faltered. "But you…"

"I'll be right behind you, now go!"

Marik's face set. He jerked his head once in a nod and leaned forwards, crooning into the stallion's ears as he held the reins tight. The stallion seemed to know what he was doing, thankfully, as Marik was still a very uncertain rider at best. They tore on across the desert, following the other thieves with the guards pounding over the sand behind them.

The ride seemed to last an age, but eventually, a low, overhanging rock came into view. There was clearly some sort of structure within them, and there was a vast, gaping opening leading deep down into darkness. Marik didn't even have time to be afraid before the stallion was plunging into the yawning, dark maw of the rock. A cave opened up around them, but it was too dark to see anything – only the dried, musty smell and the sound of the hooves on rock gave Marik any inkling of where he was. Shadows pressed against his eyelids.

Confusing sounds echoed in Marik's ears, mixing with the _clack_ of Bakura's stallion's hooves against the rocky ground. It was cool down here, a relief after the burning sun of the desert. Marik could hear his heart pounding in his throat, racing after the relentless chase through the desert.

Eventually, there was a strange _swoosh_ , and then a flame burst into being somewhere in front of Marik. He squinted in the light, just about making out the shape of Seti's face in the flickering shadows. "Alright, who've we got?"

Thut, Ibebi, and Anen all spoke up, and then Marik added his tired voice.

"Where's the chief?" Seti asked sharply.

"With Menes," Marik answered, and felt his throat tighten. "Menes was shot."

There was a silence.

"How bad?" Anen asked.

"I think he was unconscious." Marik licked his lips. "B – the Thief King jumped on his mare and told me to run. He said he'd be right behind me, or I wouldn't have…"

"It's alright." Anen's low voice sounded, followed by a rustle.

"Hey, watch'a doing?" Seti's voice quickly broke the silence again.

"Going after him."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Ibebi spoke up.

"Why?"

"We can't lose anyone else…"

"But if the Thief King is out there alone…"

"He won't get caught," Marik interrupted with more assertiveness than he felt.

Seti peered at him through the flickering light. "You sure, tombkeeper?"

"Yes." Marik didn't flinch at the name. "He said he was right behind me, and he will be. The last thing we need is to go running off into the desert when we don't know where the guards are."

The silence continued for another moment before Anen slowly dipped his head. "For now, I will listen to you, tombkeeper."

Marik let out a sigh of relief. The thieves didn't look happy, but they slowly began to dismount and set up a camp in the large cavern. Marik tended to Bakura's stallion, running his hands over the black coat with a slightly trembling touch. _He will be ok, though,_ Marik vowed to himself. _He will._

 _He has to be._

 **I'm ending this chapter here, I'm sorry! But it was just getting so long… I promise to have the next one out speedily for you, though. Also, apologies for any typos, I think I caught them all but I'm tired so I might have missed one or two. Thanks so much for reading this far! – Jem**


	14. Chapter 14

**Back with an update, and speedily, like I said xD Continuing on straight from where the last one ends, and apologies for that slight cliffhanger. Thanks so much to everyone still reading and reviewing this story, I am so grateful! I really appreciate your kind words. Enjoy this chapter! – Jem**

 **Warnings for this chapter: a bit more citronshipping, slight graphic description of injuries/blood, and some angst**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are Kazuki Takahashi's, not mine.**

It was late into the night when the Thief King finally made his way into the cave. The tired clacking of hooves was their first warning, accompanied by a low, almost silent panting, and then a rough chuckle. "I see you made yourselves comfortable."

Marik instantly shot upright. In Bakura's absence, the thieves had started a small fire going, illuminating the vast, cavernous space they found themselves in. The horses were grouped together at one end, their packs and belongings piled haphazardly next to them. The thieves themselves had congregated around the fire, and made some vegetable broth as there was no meat to be had. Marik had kept mostly to himself. He curled up in a corner and watched the flames, trying to remind himself that just because he was back in an enclosed space didn't mean he was trapped underground forever again. Still, it felt like the walls were crowding in too close on all sides.

As soon as Bakura announced himself, Marik went straight to his side, peering sternly at him in the firelight. The Thief King looked exhausted. His face was haggard, his scar standing out starkly against the dark skin of his face. Menes' grey mare stood skittishly beside him, with Menes himself slumped in the saddle. Bakura held one arm a little awkwardly in front of him. He turned his tired grey eyes to Ibebi. "See to Menes."

Ibebi didn't need telling twice. He directed Thut to help him, lifting Menes gently off the grey mare and placing him down by the fire.

Marik turned his attention back to Bakura. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Bakura waved him away. "Starved as a dog, but fine."

"There's food here," Anen broke in, his eyes trained on Bakura too. "What happened to your arm?"

"An arrow grazed me," Bakura shrugged easily. He sat down and grabbed for a bowl, grimacing slightly. "No meat?"

"More's the pity," Seti grunted from where he was tending to Menes' grey mare.

Marik moved to sit beside Bakura, watching him closely as the thief dug into the broth. Despite Bakura's words, he looked exhausted, and quite a bit worse for the wear. His long red robe was torn in a place or two, and his left arm sat awkwardly in his lap, bent at an odd angle.

Marik clicked his tongue. "Your arm looks worse than you say."

"The arrow glanced off the bone," Bakura answered with a shrug.

Marik shook his head, reaching out to take Bakura's arm. Bakura pulled away.

Marik tutted. "Let me see."

"Are you my wife now?" Bakura arched an amused brow at him.

Marik released an irritated huff of air. "Just let me see it."

"I'm fine."

Anen leaned in from Bakura's other side, his dark eyes clear. "The tombkeeper speaks sense, Thief King."

Bakura raised his eyes upwards. "Not you too."

"Just let me see," Marik grouched, reaching for Bakura's arm again.

Bakura glared at him. "I am _fine_."

"Then you won't mind me looking, will you?"

"He's right," Anen inputted helpfully, sending Marik a sly wink.

Bakura glared between them before finally relenting with a grunt. "Both of you will be the death of me."

"Not if I have anything to do with it," Marik muttered. Gently, he took Bakura's wrist in his hand and tugged the red material up to above his elbow. There was indeed a glancing wound on his dark forearm; it was shallow, but also bleeding profusely. Marik clicked his tongue. "You call this _nothing_?"

"I'm fine," Bakura grouched.

Marik shared a look with Anen, who snorted and got to his feet. "I'll fetch the bandages."

"I don't need…"

"Shush," Marik interrupted, placing one finger delicately against the Thief King's lips.

Bakura glared daggers at him.

"What?" Marik grinned impishly. "You need to learn to shut up sometimes."

Bakura moved his head out of the way, snapping playfully at Marik's finger. "This coming from _you_?"

"Shut up."

When Anen returned, Marik took the time to carefully dress Bakura's wound, making sure to staunch the heavy flow of blood. He was unwilling to admit it out loud, but Marik felt an undeniable flood of relief that Bakura wasn't more badly hurt. He knew they had got off relatively lightly – if they were ever caught, the Palace guards would do much worse than simply shoot a few arrows at them. For a while, trapped in the darkness of the cave, Marik had felt cold fear at the dreadful thought that, maybe, the Thief King would never return. It had scared Marik, how much that thought terrified him.

When did he come to care so much about Bakura?

"How's Menes?" Bakura asked as Marik worked away at his arm.

Ibebi gave a low sigh. "Sick."

"How bad?"

Ibebi shrugged a little helplessly, his face drawn. "If we can manage to keep infection out, then he should recover. The arrow got his chest, but it missed anything vital. I've stopped the blood and applied a poultice, so it's just a matter of watching him until he wakes up."

Bakura nodded slowly, his face creasing a little. "We can stay here a few days. I'll go out in the morning to make sure we weren't followed."

"You won't," Marik interrupted shortly.

Bakura turned his head to send him an amused glare. "Excuse me?"

"Not with this arm, you won't," Marik stated again.

"Marik, I'm _fine_."

"You're not. Do you even know how much blood you lost?"

"Most of it was Menes'," Bakura griped.

"Not all of it, though," Marik shook his head. He finished tying the bandage, making sure it was tight enough to stop any more blood from leaking from the wound, and then leaned against Bakura's side. He felt that same odd sense of relief when he wasn't pushed away, too – instead, Bakura wrapped an arm around his shoulders as soon as he was free and drew Marik closer against him. Marik nuzzled him a little. He wasn't used to close contact like this – any time he had dared to show affection towards his Father, he would soon be sent back to study – but Marik found himself enjoying such soft touches as these.

"Heh, you look comfy, chief."

…Except teasing like that was a pain.

Bakura merely used his good arm to chuck a blanket at Seti's head, and then drew Marik closer still. Marik could feel slow embarrassment creep through his veins, but he ignored it in favour of leaning his head against Bakura's shoulder.

Bakura glared around each and every one of the thieves. "If any of you has a problem with _this_ ," he gestured to Marik's close proximity to himself, "Then I suggest you get out now. We clear?"

Seti gave another low chuckle. "No complaints from me, chief."

"Me neither," Anen answered, his dark eyes bright. "It took you both long enough to admit it."

Bakura glared mildly at him.

Marik lifted his face enough to send Anen an inquisitive look. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, Marik," Bakura answered in a low growl, with another threatening look sent Anen's way.

Anen merely grinned at him. "Our esteemed Thief King has been moping over you for a while."

"Oh really?" Marik arched an interested brow.

Bakura grunted. "I do not _mope_."

"Yes ya do, chief," Seti interrupted with a snicker.

Bakura glared at him. His arm tightened around Marik's shoulders, and Marik couldn't help but slide closer, enjoying the warmth of the thief by his side.

"The tombkeeper isn't much better," Thut chuckled from his place by Menes' side.

"Oh?" Bakura lifted a brow.

"He moped like anything when he was stuck in the camp with me."

"Interesting," Bakura chuckled.

Marik hid his face in Bakura's shoulder. He felt rather than heard Bakura laughing at him.

They spent the rest of that night in the cave. Menes was placed closest to the fire, his body slicked with a thin sheen of sweat. Ibebi stayed close beside him, occasionally cooling his brow with a cloth, or re-applying the poultice to the stern wound on his chest. Menes eyes were tight shut, and he was still. Marik watched with worry gripping him. Of all the thieves, Menes had made him most comfortable when he first arrived. Something twinged inside Marik at the sight of him lying so helpless, and yet again by the hand of the Pharaoh. Marik's eyes dimmed. _That man has a lot to answer for._

"Do you need more water?" Bakura asked Ibebi as the evening wore on.

Ibebi shook his head, tired. "Not yet. In the morning." He rubbed a tired hand over his forehead. "The rest of you should sleep – I may need you to take over in the morning, if his fever has not broken."

The others nodded, but Bakura's brows lowered. "If you need to rest…"

"I can do more good here in the night," Ibebi shook his head.

Bakura held his gaze for another long moment before jerking his head. "Thut, stay with him," he ordered shortly.

Thut simply nodded.

The other thieves passed out blankets, beginning to curl up in darker corners of the cave. Bakura drew Marik close, away from the flickering fire, though Marik grimaced a bit at the loss of warmth and light. The darkness pressed too close around him, and he shivered.

Bakura looped an arm around Marik's waist. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Marik answered immediately. Too quickly.

Bakura lifted a brow, then glanced around at the cave. A low noise of understanding emanated from the back of his throat. "Ah. This place is too similar to a tomb, hm?"

Marik's eyes narrowed. "How did you…?"

"I'm good at guessing." Suddenly, Bakura gripped Marik's legs and spun him around, all but tugging him into his lap so they were facing each other. He placed a finger under Marik's chin and eyed him calmly. "This is not your tomb."

"I know," Marik answered, and his expression crumpled a little. He shifted. "Just … being by the fire makes it feel more different."

Bakura nodded slowly. "…Then I will not take you from it." He pushed Marik away a little, and Bakura edged back into the darkness.

Marik blinked after him. "Where are you going?"

A low chuckle escaped Bakura's lips. "My, you _do_ miss falling asleep on me."

"Shut up," Marik glared at him. "Do you have a problem with fire, or what?"

Bakura's silence spoke volumes.

Marik arched a brow. He glanced towards the fire, where Ibebi and Thut were talking in low voices over Menes, and then to the other thieves, who were settled into their own corners. Seti was already snoring, and Anen was making no sound. Marik turned back to see that Bakura had drifted away to the furthest reach of the cave. There was nothing to be seen of him but an occasional flash of silver-white hair, and he kept his face turned firmly away from the flames.

Marik blinked. "You _do_ have a problem with fire, huh?"

Bakura still said nothing.

Marik chewed his inner cheek for a moment before moving straight over to the thief's side. He met Bakura's gaze, peering intently at him. "Did something in your past make you scared of flames?"

"Hush, Marik," Bakura grouched, but his tone lacked any venom.

Marik clicked his tongue. "This is why you should tell me about you."

"Rich, from the man who won't give me his surname."

"You know I can't do that," Marik answered absentmindedly. He sent one more longing glance back to the flames before turning to face Bakura again. Without another word, Marik curled up against Bakura's side with a slow yawn.

Bakura arched a brow at him. "Aren't you staying by the fire?"

"Nah," Marik shrugged.

Bakura snorted. "You really _must_ like falling asleep on me."

"Perhaps." Marik sent him a sly smirk. "Perhaps I like not-falling-asleep on you, too."

Bakura rolled his eyes. He used his good arm to draw Marik closer against his side, leaning in to kiss his jaw. Marik tilted his head back, allowing his eyes to slide closed, as Bakura's lips searched his face until they met his mouth. They kissed for a long moment before Bakura pulled back, and gestured Marik closer with a wicked smirk covering his face.

They moved through into a different chamber of the cave, where they had a little more privacy.

Later that night, Marik lay with his head pressed against Bakura's bare chest, listening to the thief's slow heartbeat. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't near sleep yet. He felt warm, even warmer due to his close proximity with Bakura, and the hand that softly stroked through his hair. He hadn't ever quite expected Bakura to take to these soft touches, and Marik frequently had to remind himself that this was really happening now, and not just in his head.

Marik tilted his head up to look closely at Bakura's face. Bakura's eyes were closed, his expression peaceful, marred only by the scar that ripped jaggedly down his right cheek. Marik leaned further into the touch in his hair, and then gently placed the palm of one hand against Bakura's scarred cheek.

Bakura's eyes blinked open to send Marik a quizzical stare.

Marik grinned at him. "Just checking I can still touch you without you threatening to kill me."

"I haven't done that in a while," Bakura admonished with a low chuckle.

Marik shifted further on top of him, resting his chin against Bakura's chest in order to smirk at him. "I appreciate that."

Bakura snorted softly. He moved his face into Marik's touch and closed his eyes again, his breaths evening out. Marik knew better than to think he was asleep, though. He laid his head against Bakura's chest and murmured, "Why don't you like fire?"

"Go to sleep, Marik." Bakura didn't even bother to open his eyes.

Marik chuckled, though he could feel tiredness beginning to drag at his limbs. He closed his eyes, speaking through a yawn. "I'll get it out of you eventually."

"Maybe when you tell me everything about you," Bakura answered lowly, but Marik was already too far into sleep to hear him properly.

 _The tomb closed around him again._

 _Darkness flickered in the edges of his vision, closing around him, centring him. He could feel his back ripped open, the endless dull throb of pain that had become his everlasting companion these past few weeks jolting against his spine. His back felt on constant fire. Marik screwed his eyes shut, bearing the pain as a constant reminder of exactly why he had to get out of here. It fuelled his anger, feeding his hatred and malicious intent towards the one who had inflicted such pain on him. He would get his revenge, as soon as he was able._

 _Marik worked and worked until he was ready. He practised standing up, practised holding the blade that he had secreted beneath his pillow. It felt warm and eager in his fingers._

 _He was ready._

 _That evening, when his Father came with food and poultice for the night, Marik forced himself to lie still. His blood was pounding through his veins, throbbing against the scars imprinted into his back, dried scabs still flaking when he moved too fast. But Marik was ready, and this was his only chance. He had to get out. He had to be free._

 _"Marik," his Father's low voice crooned, "I have your meal…"_

 _His sentence was never finished. As soon as he was fully in the room, Marik swung up from the bed with a practised roar, his fingers gripping the knife under his pillow. He turned on his Father in a shout of angry, unyielding rage._

 _His Father's eyes widened in surprise. As Marik advanced, he turned and ran. Marik kept easy pace behind him, the knife firm in his grip, his eyes fixated on the lantern swinging from his Father's hand._

 _It didn't take long for his Father to run out of places to run._

 _It was in the corridor at the very end of the tomb that he finally turned to face his son._

 _Marik surveyed him with a cool, calculating expression, the knife firm in his hand. His Father's tiny eyes peered at him, his crinkled face stern rather than scared. "Marik, what have you done?"_

 _"I need to get out of here." Marik's voice was cracked and hoarse with lack of use._

 _His Father shook his head slowly. "You know that is impossible."_

 _"I don't care. I'm leaving."_

 _"The Tombkeepers' Vow…"_

 _"I don't care." Marik's tone was low and scathing, cutting through the air far more sharply than the knife in his hand ever could._

 _His Father took a step back._

 _"I never agreed to this," Marik hissed, his tone venomous. "Never."_

 _"You were too young…"_

 _"I never would have agreed, and you knew that," Marik growled. "You hid it from me so I wouldn't try to escape."_

 _His Father swallowed. "Marik…"_

 _"Well, now it's too late," Marik interrupted with a gleam to his eye. "I'm getting out."_

 _His Father's eyes hardened. "I can't let you."_

 _Marik swallowed, his fingers clenching around the knife. "I know."_

 _There was just the slightest flash of fear in his Father's eyes before the knife flashed down between them. The blood seemed to spurt like a fountain, spewing out of his Father's flesh as if there was nothing else left of him. The stench surrounded him, invading Marik's nostrils, clinging to his flesh long after he was free, long after he had escaped to the surface. It clung to his skin, staining him, red so red, like the final bleed of light before the sunset. Marik trembled, drawing in a shaky breath. The body of his dead Father would still be there, deep beneath the surface, rotting and blackened and red with horrid blood._

 _And it was all Marik's fault._

 _Guilt clung to him as sternly as the blood, flashing in front of his eyes. It was all his fault. His Father was dead, his family torn apart, all because of him. Marik curled up in a ball and screamed. The face of his sister flashed before his eyes, drawn and tired and sickened with him, because he had murdered their only remaining family, torn him apart with all that gushing red, staining and stinking and forever counting him as guilty, damned for all eternity…_

"Marik…"

"I didn't want to!"

"Marik."

"I swear! I had no choice!"

" _Marik_!"

With a startled shriek, Marik started awake. He shot upright, his chest rising and falling, loud gasping breaths heaving into his lungs. The tattered remnants of his dream still clung to him, his Father's dead eyes staring at him, red blood flowing across the shadows of the tomb. Marik drew in a desperate breath. _I'm not in the tomb anymore. I'm not in the tomb anymore. I'm not…_

Marik trembled again when he opened his eyes and he was surrounded by darkness.

The walls were closing in around him, darkness pressed against his open eyes. _No. I'm out. I'm out…! Aren't I?_ The darkness encroached all around him, endless and desperate and panicked. His Father's dead eyes flashed before his eyes, then Isis' disgusted, saddened face, then Atem's stern stare, and Seto's furious anger…

"Marik."

Warm, firm hands landed on his shoulders, shaking him gently. A familiar scent invaded him, instantly slowing Marik's racing pulse, calming his flitting thoughts. Marik drew in another gasping breath.

Suddenly, he found himself crushed against a warm, gentle chest. Arms were wrapped around his back, cradling him, and slow fingers started to trail through his hair. Marik's loud, gasping breaths slowly started to calm, and he found himself relaxing minutely, the tension leaking out of his muscles.

"Now," Bakura murmured softly from somewhere above him, "Are you going to tell me what that was all about?"

Marik swallowed. Tears clung to the edge of his eyes; he squeezed them out without moving, instead burying his face closer into Bakura's chest. "My Father … I didn't … I had to kill him…"

A low sigh escaped Bakura's lips. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Marik's shivering frame. "It was your first time killing someone?"

Marik nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

Bakura held him, still trailing the fingers of one hand through Marik's golden hair. A jewel – that's what he was, a jewel. A precious jewel that Bakura had somehow caught. He nosed gently at Marik's hair, holding his shivering form in his lap. "Sometimes, it helps to talk about it."

"I just…" Marik's voice sounded muffled. "I didn't realise how much _blood_ there would be…"

Bakura almost shuddered at the revulsion in his tone.

"I never thought I'd have to kill him…" Marik stumbled over his words. "Gods know I never wanted to…"

A small frown creased Bakura's brow at that. "He locked you in a tomb. Why wouldn't you want to?"

"He wasn't a bad Father, not really," Marik mumbled into Bakura's chest. "He always looked out for me and Isis, and he got us in good favour with the Pharaoh. He probably thought he was doing me a favour, turning me into a tombkeeper…"

Bakura went still. "…Isis?"

Marik nodded, his eyes still tight shut. "My sister. When she became a Priestess my Father didn't have much choice about what to do with me – a tombkeeper was roughly equal rank, after all…"

Bakura's arms dropped from around him.

Marik frowned, drawing back with a low huff of complaint. He tilted his face up to Bakura, a crease in his brow, and he drew away from Bakura's chest when he caught sight of his expression. Bakura looked like a thunderclap. Marik narrowed his eyes. "What…?"

"Your sister," Bakura growled. "Isis. A Priestess."

Marik's blood instantly ran cold.

"You surname." Bakura's voice was a low, throbbing hum in the air, freezing like crystals between them. "You would never tell me."

Marik tried to swallow. His throat felt too thick. He backed up, but Bakura's hand shot out, closing around his elbow to hold him tightly in place. Bakura's grey eyes were burning worse than ever as he pinned Marik with a furious glare. "Ishtar? Is that your name? Marik Ishtar?"

Marik almost shuddered. "How do you…?"

" _Are you Marik Ishtar?"_

Marik's mouth opened and closed, hands curling into fists by his sides, before his expression set. He drew in a calming breath. "There was a reason I never wanted you to find out."

Bakura released a furious growl. He shoved Marik away from him and was instantly upright, his hands clenched into tight fists by his sides. Marik scrambled backwards automatically. Inwardly, he was cursing himself, cursing his weakness, cursing the situation. He had allowed himself to become too comfortable, and now everything would fall apart.

" _Ishtar_." Bakura's voice was a low, malicious trickle in the freezing air of the tomb. "You're a fucking _Ishtar_?!"

"I knew you would react like this," Marik answered, attempting to stop his voice from shaking.

Bakura merely hissed at him. The thief was on his feet, striding about the tiny chamber like a caged animal, his hands clenched into tight fists by his sides. He was visibly trembling. He looked angrier than Marik had ever seen him – angrier even than when he had seen Menes lying slumped and injured on the horse, or the guards of the Palace growing closer. The atmosphere in the cave shifted, darkening like a thunderstorm.

"How do you even know the name Ishtar?" Marik eventually questioned.

Bakura stopped moving, but he didn't face Marik. Instead, he kept his furious glare trained on the rocky wall.

Marik licked his lips and tried again. "No one outside the Palace…"

"And you would know _so much_ about that, right?" Bakura's tone leaked with anger strong enough to send Marik sprawling back. "You're nothing but a piece of Palace _scum_ yourself."

Despite himself, Marik flinched, his anger flaring. "I am not one of them!"

" _You are an Ishtar!_ " Bakura's voice trembled with cold fury, his grey eyes burning as he stormed towards Marik, standing over him in a towering, threatening form.

Marik glared up at him. "I am Marik."

"You're a shit piece of Palace scum, just like your sister and your father and the damned Pharaoh himself."

Marik's nostrils went white.

Bakura was breathing heavily, his grey eyes fixed on Marik, fury in his every motion. He crouched to be level with Marik once again, then reached forwards, grasping his shoulders tight enough to leave stark red marks against Marik's bare brown skin. "When were you going to tell me?" Bakura hissed.

Marik kept silent, his violet eyes flaring

"Were you _ever_ going to tell me?"

"Can you honestly blame me?" Marik spat in response, "When you react like _this_?"

Bakura shoved him away with a snarl. "Piece of Palace shit…"

"I am _not_ one of them!" Marik snapped, his tone thin and shaking. He got to his feet and glowered at Bakura, curling his hands into fists.

Bakura snarled at him. "You're an _Ishtar_ …"

"I am exactly the same Marik I was five minutes ago," Marik shot back through gritted teeth. "Still the tombkeeper who ran away. Still the person who killed my own Father to get away from that life."

Bakura remained silent, but his expression was dangerous, and so were his flashing grey eyes.

"Don't you _dare_ lump me in with the rest of the Palace," Marik growled lowly.

Bakura hissed. "You _are_ one of them."

"Not by choice," Marik retorted sharply, "And not since I was ten years old."

"Your sister…"

"I never even _saw_ her for the six years I was in the tomb." Marik gave a harsh laugh. "And she didn't step in once when I was exiled."

Bakura's jaw clicked. "She was _there_?!"

"They all were," Marik answered as calmly as he could. "Atem, Seto, Isis, Mahaad … all the Priests and Priestesses I grew up with, the ones who knew me as a boy. None of them even blinked an eye when I was cast out."

Bakura's body was far too still, his every muscle locked with tension.

Marik kept his eyes trained on Bakura, daring to take a step closer. When Bakura didn't react, Marik tried for another step, and another, until he was close enough to lay a hand on Bakura's arm.

"How can you still lump me in with them," Marik continued quietly, "When they exiled me without a second thought?"

Bakura held still for another long moment before he pulled his arm free of Marik's grip. He turned his back on Marik, his shoulders still locked with tension, his body remaining far too still. There was no movement in the silent chamber. Marik could feel his heart racing in his chest, forcing blood through his veins at a dizzying rate, roaring in his ears and tugging at his fingers. He swallowed.

Eventually, after a painfully long silence, Bakura spoke again. His words dropped like rocks to the bottom of Marik's stomach. "Get out of my sight."

Marik drew a step back, his heart in his mouth. "Bakura, what…"

"I _mean it_ , Marik." Bakura turned his head just enough to send Marik a furious, burning grey stare, his expression the closest to losing control that Marik had ever seen it. "Get _out_ of my _sight._ "

Marik swallowed. He drew back another step, the distance between them almost painful, and wet his lips. "Where…"

"I don't give a damn."

Marik trembled. He kept a hard stare trained on Bakura's back for a moment, before he turned towards the chamber's entrance, bending down to scoop up his clothes.

"Marik."

Marik turned to see that Bakura had his back to him again. His fists were still clenched by his sides, and his body was just slightly trembling.

"Don't leave the caves."

Marik drew in a careful breath. He grunted once to show he had heard, then turned to the chamber and exited, leaving Bakura alone with his thoughts.

 **Sorry, I know that's another cliffhanger, but I'm leaving it there this chapter xD I'll update tomorrow for you! Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing, I honestly really appreciate it ^^ - Jem**


	15. Chapter 15

**I promised not to leave that cliffhanger for long, didn't I? ^^ Here is the update, anyway, and I hope it will be ok, although this chapter is quite angsty. Thanks for everyone who reviewed, asdhsfsk I don't deserve such good responses. I'm kind of proud last chapter surprised you though, and you think they're IC enogh xD enjoy this one! – Jem**

 _At least he didn't throw me out completely._

That was the one thought that raced through Marik's mind as he moved back through the caves to the main chamber where they had eaten last night. The darkness of the cavern closed around him, and he wished he had thought to pick up a lantern. As it was, he was left to flounder through the shadows on his own, one hand skimming the rock as he felt his way forward and prayed that he wouldn't meet anything dangerous.

He shuddered at the memory of Bakura's furious tone. Marik had never witnessed him that angry before – not even when the Palace guards were advancing on them. Marik scowled bitterly down at the ground. This was exactly why he had known he couldn't trust Bakura – the thief would _never_ accept someone from the Palace. The rejection burned through Marik's veins, painful enough to make him flinch.

It didn't take him too much longer to find his way back to the main cavern. Marik tugged his purple robes tighter about him as he surveyed the scene. The fire was still burning, stoked by an exhausted-looking Thut, and Ibebi was still crouching beside Menes' form. Anen was sitting back against the rock, sharpening his knife, and Seti was curled up asleep under his cloak. Marik avoided their gazes, unsure how much of his fight with Bakura they had heard. Instead, he made for the fire, casting Menes a worried look. "How is he?"

"Still unconscious." Ibebi sounded utterly drained. "His fever's not breaking."

Marik pursed his lips. "What's in the poultice?"

"Willow, sycamore, and acacia."

Marik nodded slowly. "What about coriander?"

"I don't have a supply." Ibebi drew his hand across his brow, closing his eyes.

Marik bit his lip. "We had some in the tomb – it should be somewhere among what you stole…"

Ibebi shot him a keen glance. "You know medicine?"

"Only a very little," Marik answered distractedly as he went to the sacks containing the stolen goods.

Ibebi watched him keenly for a moment, until Menes gave a soft groan, and he directed his attention back down to him. Menes' forehead was still burning.

"Here." Marik soon found the small herb kit they had kept in the tomb, slightly depleted after trading at the markets. He brought it over to Ibebi. "I don't know if there's anything there you can use…"

"I'll look. Watch Menes."

Marik nodded, obediently taking a seat beside Menes' burning body. The heat emanating off him was almost warmer than the fire. A thin sheen of sweat covered his entire body, and his expression was twisted with pain. He was lying far too still, only occasionally giving a low mutter. There was a poultice packed into the wound at his chest, held in place by tightly-bound bandages. Marik studied it closely before looking away, the sight of the blood sending shivers through his veins.

"Coriander!" Ibebi sounded almost hysterically relieved. "Tombkeeper, this is a miracle." Ibebi returned to Marik's side, the herbs clutched tight in his grip as he dived through his own medicine pack. "I'll mix it with the acacia, they're the best for cooling…"

Marik nodded. He kept his eyes down on Menes, pursing his lips at the obvious weakness to Menes' condition. He remembered how pale and sick he had looked, slumped over in his saddle…

There was a slight crash from further up the cave. Marik instantly shot his head up to see Bakura standing in the shadows. He avoided Marik's gaze, instead turning and stamping away back to the entrance of the cave. Marik felt his blood run cold. He looked down, sickness twisting in his stomach.

"What was that about?" Anen's voice sounded once Bakura's echoing footsteps had receded.

Marik turned to see Anen staring straight at him, a knowing look to his violet eyes. Marik shifted a little. "I have no idea."

"Hm." Anen stayed quiet for another moment before getting to his feet. "I'll fetch you more water, Ibebi."

Ibebi merely nodded distractedly.

Anen sent Marik one more hard stare before turning to exit the caves.

Marik glanced back down at Menes, his stomach flipping inside him. It was painfully evident that Bakura was still furiously angry at him, and Marik hated it. There wasn't even anything specific he had _done_ , except have the misfortune to be born amongst the Palace elite. Cold trepidation slid through his gut and he closed his eyes. He would likely never be forgiven, though he didn't know what else he was supposed to do. He should never have let his guard down, never have allowed Bakura to find out the truth of Marik's identity.

"Here." Ibebi moved closer, having crushed the acacia and coriander together and mixed them with wine into a drinkable liquid. "Support Menes' head – we need to get this down him."

Marik nodded. He move mechanically, lifting Menes' head carefully up until he was almost sitting. Menes made no move other than to release a low, pained groan. Marik bit his lip. It wasn't fair that Menes should be the one hurt – Menes, probably the gentlest out of all the thieves. Although, with the burns down his left-hand side, it was evident that he had already withstood more pain than most people were supposed to in their lifetimes. Now that Menes' chest was bared to allow his wound to heal, the burns patterned and twisted all down the left half of his torso were clearly visible, winding along his arm and down below his trousers too. Marik stared at the marks in fascination for a moment. _So I am not the only scarred one here._

Of course he wasn't. Bakura's right cheek was scarred too, along with many other marks covering his body that Marik had seen several times at night. Surely all the thieves here bore the marks of many battles that had eventually led them to the Thief King. Marik was no exception to that rule. Marik grimaced slightly, half-closing his eyes. No more. He couldn't be more out of place, now that Bakura knew his connection with the Palace. A Priestess for a sister … Bakura had looked so _disgusted_ …

"Hold his nose, Marik."

Marik returned to Menes, listening to Ibebi's instructions. He nodded, understanding, and shifted until Menes' back was resting against Marik's chest. Marik carefully reached forward and pinched Menes' nose, forcing his mouth open so that Ibebi could place the wine skin to his lips. Cautiously, he squeezed the medicinal mixture down Menes' throat. Menes choked, spluttering, but Ibebi soothed him gently. "Hush, Menes, drink. It will help…"

It took several more tries, but eventually Menes had drunk enough to satisfy Ibebi. Marik gently laid him back down on the ground, and then glanced to Thut and Ibebi, who both looked exhausted. "Have you been up with him all night?"

Ibebi nodded, and Thut grunted in acquiescence.

Marik tutted slightly. "You should get some sleep. I can watch Menes."

Thut got to his feet without another word, but Ibebi hesitated, his dark eyes cautious as he turned them on Marik. "Do you know how to care for him?"

"I won't let him die."

Ibebi pursed his lips. "Give him more of that mixture in three hours' time. And every half-hour, change the poultice. We can't risk infection."

Marik nodded.

"The poultice is mixed in the bowl beside you." Ibebi leaned closer, his eyes hard. "Wake me the _instant_ Menes changes."

Marik nodded again, his eyes calm as he looked back at Ibebi. "I understand. I will wake you as soon as he stirs."

"The _second_ he does," Ibebi reiterated. At Marik's nod, he turned with a final hard stare to curl up by the wall in a corner.

Marik turned back to Menes, releasing a low sigh as he glanced over Menes' wounds. The young man looked sickly, shivering despite his burning skin, and his face twisted with pain and grimaces every few minutes. Marik picked up the cool cloth and gently placed it against his forehead again, attempting to calm him. It didn't seem to work, although the water was lukewarm by now. He remembered Anen was going to get more – hopefully he would be back soon.

Marik turned to the fire, stoking up the flames to encourage a brighter light in the cavern. It was cool in here, in stark contrast to the baking sun of the desert outside – but it was also dark, and too similar to the tomb for Marik to be truly comfortable. He focused on the flames in-between caring for Menes.

Marik felt darkness beginning to swirl in his chest, clinging to his heart and wrapping cold fingers around his lungs, freezing his breath. He had lost everything again. He had lost his sister when he first went down into the tomb; he lost his Father as soon as his back was scarred; and now he had lost Bakura, and the one place he had begun to feel at home. For the first time in his life, Marik had started to feel as if he belonged with the thieves, as if he fit in somewhere. Now, that illusion was well and truly shattered.

Bakura hated him. He had to hate him. Marik was from the _Palace_ , after all.

Marik's face set into anger as he continued to stoke up the flames, his thoughts spiralling ever further into darkness.

…

Bakura walked mindlessly outside under the bright morning sun.

His thoughts were an endless whirl of confusion and anger, echoing on and on in circles through his brain. He tried to tune them all out. Fury burned slow and familiar in his veins, sending him further into anger, although oddly enough, betrayal was the emotion at the centre of his being. Betrayal, greater than any he had felt before. His hands clenched tightly by his sides, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

Ishtar. Marik was an Ishtar.

It all made too much sense. Marik was highborn, a tombkeeper; of _course_ he would be affiliated with the Palace. But to be an _Ishtar_ … to have a sister as a Priestess in the Palace, one of the Pharaoh's trusted Council, and a holder of a Millennium Item…

Bakura's stomach roiled at just the thought.

A low growl rumbled through his chest and Bakura stopped walking, squeezing his eyes shut. He had grown too close to slipping up. To think he had allowed Marik so close to him, in his bed and in his head, crowding his thoughts and creeping ever closer to his heart. Bakura released another low, dangerous growl. He never should have allowed Marik so close, not when he still knew so little about him.

Was it any wonder that Marik hadn't shared his surname with Bakura?

Bakura hissed. Even after he had shared his own name, the tombkeeper still couldn't trust him. That should have been Bakura's first warning. He should have known from then that Marik was not someone he could trust, not someone he should allow close to him. He should have followed sense, no matter how much his instincts were screaming at him to steal Marik and claim him as his own.

Bakura's jaw clenched. No point thinking like that anymore. He could never let Marik this close to him again.

"Thief King?"

Anen's soft voice sounded from somewhere behind him.

Bakura growled, but stopped moving, allowing Anen to catch up to him.

"Something's the matter."

Bakura grunted.

Anen laid a calming hand on Bakura's shoulder, glancing up at him with a softened expression. "Tell me, Thief King."

Bakura sent him a furious glare.

"Is it something to do with Marik?" Anen continued to press.

Bakura ripped free from his grip. He sent him another furious glare before turning to stalk on across the desert, the sand rippling up around him, his red cloak flaring. Cold fury was beginning to turn hot in his veins, echoing with the bitter taste of betrayal. Bakura's face screwed up.

A smatter of footsteps behind him told him that Anen was following. Bakura couldn't say he was surprised – Anen had never been in the habit of leaving him alone, even when he so clearly wanted to be.

"Don't go too far, Bakura," Anen mentioned as they continued across the desert. "We still don't know for sure where the guards are."

Bakura stopped at those words. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, careful breath, taking the time to silence his racing heart and calm his aching muscles. He had always prided himself on patience and self-control, but in this moment, Bakura couldn't promise exactly what he would do.

Anen seemed to pick up on his mood, and he kept a safe distance away. "Whatever it is that happened, Bakura, you need to get control of yourself."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Bakura growled.

Anen watched him carefully; Bakura hated that analysing stare. "I have to question exactly what you're doing when you storm off like this."

"I do not _storm off_."

"Then what would you call what you're doing right now?"

Bakura paused, taking a deep, calming breath. He closed his eyes, but he could still feel his fingers trembling, much to his consternation. He clenched them into fists.

"What did Marik do?" Anen asked softly.

Bakura gave a harsh laugh. "He didn't _do_ anything."

"Then what is this about?"

Bakura was silent for a long moment before he answered slowly. "It's what he is, Anen. It's what Marik _is_."

Anen blinked. "A tombkeeper?"

Bakura pursed his lips. "…Worse than that."

"What could possibly be worse than that?"

Bakura's lips twitched despite himself, and he sent Anen a measuring look. "You know I am not in the habit of spilling other men's secrets."

Anen lifted a brow. "This one clearly has you upset."

"What was your first clue?"

"Don't deflect," Anen snorted, "And talk to me."

Bakura fell silent again, taking his time with his response. "…I won't share it with you. Even Marik didn't want me to find out – I think it slipped out more by accident than anything…"

Anen nodded slowly. "And yet, you judge him for it?"

"I have to," Bakura snarled immediately.

Anen paused again, thinking it over. He folded his arms and gazed out to the desert, speaking softly. "Well, I can't say much without knowing the nature of his secret, but it seems a little harsh to judge him on something he didn't even want you to know."

Bakura growled. "How so?"

"He's still Marik," Anen shrugged lightly, "No matter what you may have just found out."

Bakura went still. "He actually said the same thing."

"And you didn't listen to him?"

Bakura shook his head.

Anen gave a soft sigh, then turned towards Bakura and laid a surprisingly gentle hand on his arm. "I warned you that he's still a boy."

"So?" Bakura growled.

"So, he still has much to learn, I suspect. Give him a chance, and he may surprise you."

Bakura was silent for another long moment, so long that Anen was about to turn to head back into the cave. "…This may be too much a part of him to forget."

Anen snorted. "If it is, then he'll have been carrying it all the time you've known him."

"Precisely," Bakura hissed.

Anen shook his head. "Whether you like it or not, he _is_ still the same tombkeeper we found shivering in the desert. Much like another young boy I once knew."

Bakura spun around, the fury mixing with surprise in his veins. He pinned Anen with a ferocious grey stare, but Anen seemed just as unfazed as ever. His expression was knowing as he sent Bakura a searching look. "Take care, Thief King."

Bakura watched him head back inside the cave with a new sense of trepidation sinking in his stomach. Anen's words sat heavily in his heart. Bakura knew that Marik was the same person he had always been, but he couldn't see past the knowledge that he was one of the Palace.

Even though Marik had denied it vehemently when Bakura accused him of such.

Bakura closed his eyes, beginning to feel a headache growing in his skull. He touched one warm hand to his temple. He could already feel himself missing the warmth of Marik at his side, the way his violet eyes would narrow at his constant teasing, but also the warmth in his smile when he genuinely laughed at something Bakura said… Bakura felt another weird twist in his stomach, and he scowled. He wasn't used to emotions like this. They were a weakness he could do without.

And yet, he couldn't deny how pleasant it was to awake with Marik in his arms.

Bakura's scowl deepened. Useless thoughts. Marik was Palace scum, a tombkeeper, and a pest, and he was a danger to the group.

…Except, even inside his head, those thoughts didn't ring quite true.

Bakura sighed lowly. At least now he knew why Marik had kept his surname a secret for so long – he likely must have guessed how Bakura would react. But there was no other solution. Bakura drew himself out of his welter of tumultuous thoughts, instead turning his face to the horizon as he allowed the warm desert air to calm him.

…

Anen eventually returned to the cave with a pail full of water. Marik hadn't moved from Menes' side. His thoughts continued to swirl into darkness as he imagined up futures for himself, trying to picture himself without the Thief King by his side. It was an almost impossible task. The only other path Marik could see for himself was a lonely death in the desert, but with the mood Bakura was in, Marik wasn't sure he'd survive much longer here, either. _Well, I won't go down without a fight,_ Marik vowed to himself silently as he pressed the cooling cloth to Menes' forehead, _Bakura won't be rid of me easily._

Anen approached with the pail of water, and Marik accepted it with a distracted nod. He quickly exchanged the filthy old cloth for a new one, dipping it deep in the soothing, fresh water. He sponged gently at Menes' forehead, watching for any change in his pained expression, but there was none. Menes still had not stirred, though Marik thought his fever had gone down a little.

"How is he?" Anen asked softly.

"The same, I think," Marik answered. "I'll get Ibebi to check him when he wakes."

"He's sleeping?"

"I thought he could do with a rest."

Anen nodded. He flicked a gaze to the corners of the room, where Thut and Ibebi were sleeping in separate corners. Seti sat in the shadows near the horses, his pale eyes gleaming in the light. Anen glanced back down at Marik. The tombkeeper looked just as haggard as the Thief King, though his violet eyes were harsh and hard. His skin had darkened a little under the relentless desert sun, and without his white robes it was almost easy to forget what his past had been. Apparently, though, Bakura didn't see it like that.

With a low sigh, Anen took a seat beside Marik and leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I know the Thief King is upset with you."

Marik jerked violently. The cloth slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft _splat_ on the dusty ground of the cave, and he turned slightly widened violet eyes on Anen.

"No use looking like that," Anen chuckled softly, the lines on his face crinkling. "I could see from the way he went storming out of here that something was wrong."

Marik's eyes hardened a little. He turned away, picking up the cloth again and sending it a slightly disparaging look before dipping it back into the cool water. "Well," he spoke stiffly, "I don't know what that has to do with me."

"Don't play innocent, tombkeeper."

Marik twitched again. "Don't call me that."

"My apologies." Anen sent Marik a keen stare.

Marik kept his attention steadfastly on Menes as he gently laid the cloth against his forehead again. After a few moments, he spoke hesitantly. "So … did Bakura … say anything?"

"You know his name?" Anen arched a brow.

Marik grimaced. "He told me … before."

"That says quite a lot."

"Well, it did," Marik murmured, remembering the last conversation he and Bakura had shared. There had been nothing pleasant about that.

Anen gave a low chuckle. "It still says a lot, no matter what else he may know about you now, Marik."

Marik flinched almost automatically, and sent Anen a glare. "If you know…"

"I don't know why he's so upset with you," Anen was quick to cut in.

Marik breathed an almost invisible sigh of relief.

"But I _do_ know that he treats you much differently to anyone else I've ever seen."

Marik blinked at him.

Anen gave a soft smile. "I've known Bakura a long time now – longer than anyone – and you are the first person he has treated like an equal. Myself included."

Marik just stared.

"I would not wish to see either of you hurt," Anen continued softly.

Marik swallowed, eventually gaining enough of his senses to turn away. He put the cloth back into the water and reached for the poultice, mixing it up again. "I would not wish that, either."

"Then do something about it."

Marik gave a harsh laugh. "Right now, I'll be lucky if Bakur – if the Thief King doesn't kill me on sight."

"Oh, he won't do that," Anen answered easily. "You know too much about him."

"I know nothing about him at all," Marik murmured sullenly.

Anen sent him another keen look. "You're wrong, tombkeeper. He's let you in a lot further than anyone else." Without another word, Anen rose to his feet, old bones creaking, and went to join Seti against the wall. Marik looked after him with a slight frown on his features. He would not have expected such a conversation, but he found Anen's words clinging insistently to his head. Perhaps Bakura would not stay mad at him forever.

Although Marik did not have a clue how to fix the situation.

…

Once again, Bakura did not return until late that night.

Ibebi awoke late into the afternoon, and resumed his place by Menes' side, determining himself much happier with his state. Apparently the fever had broken, and now it should only be a matter of days until Menes woke up and made a full recovery. As long as he had time to rest and for his wound to heal, then he should be back to his normal self in little time. All the thieves had been relieved at that news – the camp felt different without Menes' sunny optimism.

Once Ibebi was back, Marik took to sitting at the mouth of the cave. At first, he had been worried about meeting Bakura, but there was still no sign of the Thief King and Marik did not relish spending so much time under cover. He needed to be able to see the sky. And so, Marik sat at the mouth of the cave with his back to the rocky wall, his gaze fixed firmly upward. He never could get enough of seeing the open sky spreading out above him, so different to the life he had known in the tomb.

When Bakura did return, he sneaked up on Marik without the latter suspecting a thing.

"I see you're still here, then."

Marik almost jumped out of his skin. He leapt straight to his feet, whirling around with a shocked stare to see Bakura sending him a level glare from out in the desert. Marik swallowed, folding his arms. "You _did_ tell me not to leave the caves."

Bakura jerked his head to show he had heard. His grey eyes were still burning.

Marik shifted uncomfortably. Words rose unbidden to his lips, but he bit them back, uncertain where to even begin. Bakura was still glaring at him, but there was none of his usual teasing edge, no warmth to his grey eyes at all. If anything, Bakura looked coldly angry.

Marik swallowed, coughed, and then tried to speak. "I'm not…"

"Get out of the way, Marik."

Without another word, Bakura strode forward, grasping Marik's shoulder for just long enough to push him to the side of the cavern. Marik whirled to glare at him, but Bakura just strode straight past and deeper into the depths of the cave. Marik blinked after him, feeling his own anger rise. He glared. "Can't you even have a civil conversation?"

There was no reply.

Marik huffed, striding after Bakura back into the main cavern. Bakura didn't stop for long, however – he simply dropped his bag, collected a water skin, and then disappeared back into the shadows. Marik glared after him, considering following, but he wasn't entirely sure he would survive the encounter.

A hand landed on Marik's shoulder, and Anen breathed into his ear, "Not yet. Let him be."

Marik pulled away with an irritable nod.

Seti was smirking at him from his place beside the wall. "You and the chief had a little lovers' spat, tombkeeper?"

"Don't call me that," Marik grouched.

Seti snorted. "Must be a bad one then, huh?"

"None of your damn business."

"Alright, touchy." Seti grinned, putting down the knife he had been sharpening in favour of stretching his long, wiry limbs. "Chief'll calm down once he's spent some time with his gold, anyway."

"Gold?" Marik arched a brow.

Seti nodded, his grin growing wider until it almost split his face in two. "He keeps his stash in these caves. I've never found it, but by all accounts, it's glorious."

"Of course it is," Thut grunted from the shadows, "It's the Thief King's."

Despite himself, Marik felt intrigued. He leaned forwards. "So he keeps all his treasure here?"

"Just the pieces he finds most attractive," Seti answered easily. "Apparently, anyway, like I said I've never seen it."

"Anen probably knows more," Thut grunted.

Anen arched a brow. "Indeed I do, but I won't be sharing it."

"You never share anything about the chief," Seti complained.

"Because he'd skin me alive if I did."

Seti grimaced before fixing Marik with a pale-eyed grin instead. "Bet the little tombkeeper knows more than he lets on, and all."

Marik hid his shiver behind a roll of his eyes. "He'd do worse than skin me if _I_ spilled his secrets."

"Spoilsport."

"I just want to stay alive."

Seti merely chuckled at that.

They spent the rest of the evening in easy conversation, sharing around some more of the vegetable broth. Their food supplies were running a little low, but it was too risky to go out into the desert with one of them injured. If the guards were still around, they needed to be able to move fast. Marik found himself wishing beyond all hope that the guards would not find this cluster of caves, because with Menes in his current state there was no chance for them to get away. Although, he reasoned, if Bakura had managed to keep a stash of gold out here, then it mustn't be easy to find.

Later that evening, a shouted exclamation from Ibebi had all the thieves up on their feet.

"He's waking! Menes is waking!"

Amidst a round of cheering, the thieves all crowded around the fire, close to what had become Menes' sickbed. Ibebi waved them all away with a harsh tut. "Get back! Give him space to breathe, idiots!"

Obediently, they drew back a step or two, although Seti kept far closer than he probably should. Ibebi glowered at him until another groan from Menes had all their attention back on the young man. He looked thin, weak, but his shivering had stopped, and his skin no longer burned with the touch of the fever. His eyes fluttered open, squinting, and he coughed a few times before attempting to speak. "Where…?"

"We're in the caves, Menes," Ibebi explained softly.

Menes frowned at him slowly. "…Caves…? There were guards…"

"You were shot," Ibebi murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. "No, don't try to move."

Menes sank back down against the cave floor, confusion creasing his forehead. He lifted a hand to his temple, then his nose, frowning. "…My glasses?"

"Trust you to ask about them," Seti snorted.

Ibebi glowered at Seti before handing Menes his small golden glasses. Menes slipped them on, and instantly managed a smile. He turned his head, weak, searching the faces of the thieves next to him until his gaze landed on Marik. "You … you saved me…"

"It was the Thief King," Marik was quick to correct. "He galloped your mare back here."

"But you were there too," Menes murmured, his voice thin, "I remember."

Marik inclined his head slowly.

"My … thanks…" Menes' voice trailed into a low pant and he coughed again, the sound getting weaker each time.

Ibebi laid a cooling cloth on his forehead again and waved the other thieves away. Marik edged back to the shadows of the cave with a strange feeling twisting his stomach. It felt a lifetime ago when he had been riding out in the desert with Bakura – before Bakura knew who Marik truly was. Things couldn't have been more different now to how they were then.

And worst of all, Marik didn't have a clue how to resolve it.

 **Yeah, angsty chapter, like I said ^^ sorry! I'll get the next one out tomorrow for you. Thanks so much for reading this far! – Jem**


	16. Chapter 16

**Here we go again – carrying straight on from last chapter. I promise there isn't too much angst. Yet. Heh. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and everyone still reading this story, I really appreciate it! Especially to the guest, I'm glad you get so absorbed, it's amazing to hear my plain old writing can have that affect xD – Jem**

 **Warnings: more steaminess, a little more than before actually. Proceed with caution (but still no explicit smut)**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are not mine**

Bakura didn't return at all that night.

Marik found himself sitting up by the fire, restlessly digging his fingers into the purple material of his robes rather than settling down to sleep. He hated being in such an enclosed space. The fire had burned down to mere embers, leaving the cavern in almost complete darkness, and Marik hated it despite knowing that the other thieves were there too. Their breathing turned loud, echoing threateningly through the cold air, creeping up on Marik's suspicious mind. Marik curled himself up into a corner and glared. He could not sleep, not matter how much he tried.

Of course, he was also missing Bakura's arms wrapped tight around him, his familiar warmth helping Marik to rest. But he didn't want to admit to that.

The next day dawned with Marik tired and irritable. The thieves woke in drips and drabs, but this time their easy conversation and raucous laughter grated on Marik's nerves more than it served to settle him. Nothing felt right without the Thief King's presence, or his teasing glances, or his lazy smirk that masked a myriad of emotions. Marik missed him more than he was willing to admit.

The day crept by impossibly slowly, but it was late into the evening by the time Bakura finally showed his face again.

Marik was once again by the entrance to the cave, his head turned up towards the sky. He was watching the first stars come out in the painted-red sunset sky when a footstep announced Bakura's presence. Marik turned his head straight away to see Bakura over by the fire, collecting some food. He sent Anen a nod, and briefly stopped to check on Menes, before he went back to the shadows, almost disappearing again.

This time, Marik wasn't going to let him.

Marik had had enough of moping, of doing nothing but sitting around in horrid uncertainty until the Thief King decided to show up and order him around some more. Marik was going to take matters into his own hands. And so, he got to his feet as quietly as he could, and followed after Bakura. They moved away from the fire and deeper into the shadows of the cavern, following a narrow passage that wound its slow way deeper into the network of caves.

Marik made sure to keep Bakura's back always in his sights, following the flare of his red cloak. He kept as silent as he could, wishing he could have a lantern to keep the flickering shadows at bay. The darkness reared around him, clinging to his thin form as he strode on through the corridors.

They didn't get much further before Bakura turned on him.

Within seconds, Marik's back was against the wall, his wrists pinned tight. "Well, little tombkeeper," Bakura's low voice hissed into his ear, "You still have not learned to _leave me alone_."

Marik almost snorted. " _You_ never leave _me_ alone."

"At least I'm better at sneaking," Bakura snapped in his low, growling voice.

Marik frowned. "I'm not bad…"

"I could hear you the instant we left the cavern."

Marik stopped short, irritated, before he glared. Through the darkness, he could only just about make out Bakura's grey eyes, but it was obvious that they were still burning with fury. Marik huffed. "Then why didn't you just stop me?"

"Because I needed to get us out of earshot first," Bakura hissed.

"Well, we seem to be out of earshot now."

"Which is exactly why you're going to _leave_."

Marik glared. "I am not."

Bakura leaned in closer, his musky, enticing scent once again surrounding Marik. Marik drew in a breath, his stomach flipping – he had missed this, even if it was all wrong now that Bakura was so angry with him.

"I told you to get out of my sight," Bakura growled.

"Well, I don't want to," Marik instantly responded.

Bakura's low hiss echoed through the air, but Marik pressed on regardless. He lifted his back away from the wall a little, feeling the burning pain flare down his scars, but he kept his focus always on Bakura. "I want to know why you're so furious with me."

Silence reigned for a moment before Bakura released a harsh laugh. "Do you seriously need to _ask_?!"

"Yes," Marik replied quickly, before he could lose his courage.

Bakura snorted, but the sound was malicious. "Then you are even more of a fool than I thought."

Marik glared. "I don't see how my past changes anything between us."

"It changes _everything_ ," Bakura growled.

Marik shook his head, anger making him brave. "All it changes is that I'm more disappointed in you, for taking something that happened years ago so seriously."

Stunned silence held for a moment longer before Bakura slammed Marik even harder against the wall, his voice a low, malicious croon in Marik's ear. "You _dare_ speak so to me?"

Marik was not perturbed in the slightest. "I have nothing left to lose."

Bakura stared at him. Eventually, he growled, "You are Palace scum."

" _No_." Marik gave a harsh laugh, and pushed away from the wall, lifting his hands to place them on Bakura's shoulders. He held Bakura at arm's length and stared at him. " _Look at me._ Do I honestly look like one of them to you?"

In the cool darkness of the shadows, it was almost impossible to make out Bakura's gaze. All Marik could do was stand there, and hope.

Then, warm hands caught his elbows, feeling up to his shoulders. Marik stood stock-still, trying to ignore the racing of his heart, the cravings of his body, as Bakura moved closer to him. His warm fingers ran up to Marik's neck, lingering there before moving up to his face. Fingers trailed through his hair, then dipped down to his sides, feeling along the curves and ridges of his body. Marik had to hold in a gasp.

Then, they moved around to his back.

Marik instantly stiffened, making to push Bakura off him, but Bakura held him tight. "Let me see," he ground out.

Marik glared. "You've seen before."

"Not properly."

Marik held his gaze in the shadows for another long moment before he eventually, reluctantly, turned.

It didn't take long for Bakura to remove Marik's robes, revealing the scarred plane of his back. His warm fingers brushed Marik's shoulders, then dipped down, feeling along every ridge and crevice, exploring the multitude of scars. Marik had to press his palms against the wall to keep himself steady, trying as hard as he could not to let a single sound escape his lips. As it was, he couldn't stop the odd gasp from slipping out, or a low groan when Bakura's nails scraped gently against his spine.

After a long, long moment that stretched like an age between them, Bakura finally spoke.

"I suppose they did this to you?"

Marik drew in a slightly shaky breath. "I can only assume it was on the orders of the Pharaoh."

One of Bakura's fingers lightly traced across the wing on his shoulder blade. "What makes you say that?"

Marik closed his eyes. "My Father couldn't have scarred his own back. His wounds were old – someone must have done them to him before we went down to the tomb…"

Silence held for another moment, and then something close to relief rushed through Marik's veins as he felt arms wind around his torso, drawing him back into Bakura's chest.

"I can't believe he did this to his own son," Bakura growled, and there was anger in his tone.

Marik snorted. "Me neither. And he would have expected me to do it to my own son, too – he had a whole marriage lined up for me, my entire life planned out. And my son to his son, and his, and his…" Marik closed his eyes and shook his head, drawing in another breath. Carefully, he turned in Bakura's grip until he could meet his eyes, his expression hard. "And yet you still call me one of the _Palace scum_?!"

Bakura met his glare calmly. "Your sister is."

"I am not Isis," Marik hissed, "And nor do I have any desire to be."

Bakura drew back a step, removing his arms from around Marik. "You were still born amongst them."

"Unfortunately, I didn't have much say in where I was born," Marik responded dryly.

Bakura's lips twitched despite himself.

Marik dared to take a step forward, closing the gap between them again. He placed both his hands on Bakura's shoulders and drew him close, burying his face in Bakura's shoulder. He spoke against his skin. "Just tell me now if you're sending me away."

Silence.

Then – "I never said that, Marik."

Arms wound around Marik's back again, and Bakura pressed him close, his familiar enticing scent surrounding Marik.

Marik closed his eyes and tightened his grip, allowing himself to feel an unmitigated sense of relief.

"But," Bakura continued, his voice low and tense, "I swear to all the Gods, if there is _anything else_ you are keeping from me…"

"Nothing," Marik answered immediately. He leaned back just enough to meet Bakura's eyes as he continued, "Nothing else, I swear."

Bakura glared at him.

"I am Marik Ishtar," Marik spoke quietly, "Brother to Priestess Isis, former tombkeeper, now living in exile in the desert."

Bakura's expression remained impassive. "Is that _everything_ about you?"

"Well," Marik continued with a slightly sly smile, "I'm also now partner to the Thief King, and in very great danger of becoming more attached to him than I probably should."

Bakura arched a brow. "If you think flattery is going to work…"

"Hush," Marik murmured, leaning a little closer in the darkness. "I meant it."

Bakura continued to regard him before his lazy smirk once again spread across his lips. "Then I think you'd better prove it."

"Arrogant bastard," Marik mumbled, but he was grinning as he finally closed the distance between them to press their lips together.

Bakura soon led Marik deeper into the caves, keeping his fingers tight around Marik's at all times. Marik couldn't help but grin as he followed Bakura. Despite still being far too deep away from the sunlight for Marik's liking, he couldn't deny that he felt light as air now that matters had cleared somewhat between himself and Bakura again. He had missed the Thief King's easy presence far more than he would ever be willing to admit.

"You know," Marik broke the silence conversationally as he was led deeper into the cave, "Seti mentioned something about you having a stash of treasure around."

Bakura stopped short, his voice emanating as a low chuckle in the cavernous darkness. "Oh, did he now?"

"Yep," Marik answered innocently. "Said he'd never been able to find it."

Silence held before Bakura snorted. "I should have known you'd be after me for my gold."

"Well, not _just_ that," Marik amended with a wicked smirk.

"Oh?"

"You have a pretty good sense of humour too. And you're warm at night."

Bakura cuffed him lightly around the back of the head.

Marik snickered, rubbing at his scalp with a low huff. "Seriously, though, will you show me your treasure?"

"Where else did you think I was leading you?" Bakura snorted.

Marik's eyes widened a little. "Really?"

"Of course, only don't tell the others about this. Can't have Seti sticking his nose in."

"You have my word on it," Marik grinned. Excitement was suddenly gripping at his stomach again. He followed after Bakura through the winding dark cavern, moving through the rocky passage. He kept his hand tight in Bakura's. He could hear a low chuckle emanating back from the thief, but Marik didn't care – it was all too easy to remember his nightmares in the darkness of the caves, but Bakura's warm hand in his kept Marik grounded and secure.

"So where exactly _is_ this stash of treasure you keep so secret?" Marik asked as they wended their way through the darkness.

Bakura gave a low chuckle from his side. "Well, that would be telling, now wouldn't it?"

Marik gave him a shove. "Don't be so infuriating."

"Me?" Bakura snorted. He tightened his hand in Marik's and tugged him on down the passage, the shadows closing in around them. Marik still felt a slight shiver of fear at the darkness, but he forced himself to relax, knowing that there was no reason to be afraid or show weakness here.

"Not much further," Bakura murmured as they moved on through the darkness. He kept Marik close by his side, ensuring that he did not stray until they rounded one more corner and a new cavern opened up beside them.

Bakura gave a low sigh, something close to relief in his tone. " _Here_."

Marik blinked, glancing around, but it was too dark to see anything. He could, however, sense that the tiny, cramped passage had opened up to a much larger space. There was a rustle of movement from beside him, and Bakura's hand momentarily left his. Marik floundered alone in the darkness, trying not to allow panic to overtake him, until there was a low strike and a flame danced through the shadows.

Bakura lifted the lantern high, illuminating his sharp grin, and gestured to the chamber.

Gold glinted from every corner.

Marik's jaw dropped. Everywhere he looked, treasures glistened out, from the farthest reaches of the room to the closest corners of the shadows. The rocky ground was littered with priceless, gleaming jewels, winking temptingly up at Marik's itching fingers. Great, towering statues loomed from the corners, casting lengthy, flickering shadows in the dim light of the lantern, darkness brushing teasingly up against Marik's slim form. His hand tightened in Bakura's, his eyes wide and gleaming.

Marik took a step forwards, his feet sending trinkets clinking together. Everywhere he looked, more gold gleamed, shining out of every surface. In particular, Marik noticed an incredible amount of gold decorated with the Eye of Horus. It winked out at him from every corner, and Marik remembered Menes explaining how the Thief King liked to keep a stash. He couldn't help but wonder why, although he was soon distracted by the sheer amount of treasure in the room.

A low chuckle emanated through the cavern. "From your expression, Marik, I'd say you approve."

Marik simply continued to stare in awe. He blinked around, taking in the vast expanse of glittering gold, and all he could do was shake his head in wonder. "How did you even _get_ all of this?"

"I've been stealing for a long time." Bakura's low voice held a kind of pride, and he was smirking as he leaned arrogantly against one wall, eyeing Marik closely.

Marik span to face him. "Clearly." He glanced back around at the gold, his violet eyes wide and reflecting back the various glimmers. He couldn't help but feel his fingers beginning to itch, longing to hold the gold, to feel it run through his fingers.

Bakura chuckled again. "You would be wise to remember that stealing from me is a _very_ bad idea."

"I wasn't going to steal from you," Marik glared.

Bakura snorted. "I know that look."

Marik arched a brow at him.

"You _want_ the things in here," Bakura practically purred, and his grey eyes were dancing again. "I can see it in your eyes."

Marik looked away immediately. He didn't deny the truth of Bakura's words, however, instead casting another longing glance around the room. This time, he gave into his instincts, and bent to run his fingers through some of the golden coins. They clinked together pleasingly. "Did this _all_ come from tombs?"

"Not all of it," Bakura answered with an easy arrogance, "But most."

Marik span to face him, genuine interest in his eyes. "And the rest?"

"Stolen from markets," Bakura shrugged, "Or robbed from travelling merchants. I inherited some of it, too."

Marik blinked at that. "Inherited?"

Bakura's face shifted, his expression closing slightly, and all he did was jerk his head in a grim nod.

Marik's curiosity was instantly piqued. "Where did you even inherit it _from_?"

"None of your business, _Ishtar_."

Marik didn't miss the use of his surname, and he flinched automatically, fixing Bakura with a glare. "Don't call me that."

"And why not?" Bakura's tone was deceptively smooth, but his eyes were still burning.

Marik shifted. "It isn't who I am."

"It's your name."

"Not by choice," Marik hissed, "And I left that life behind me a long time ago."

Bakura's eyes narrowed. His gaze remained trained on Marik's face for a long moment, neither of them willing to look away first, and the silence stretched uncomfortably between them for an almost unbearable moment.

Eventually, Marik broke first.

He shifted, glancing back down at the multitude of gold surrounding him. He bent and picked up one of the items closest to him – a mirror, decorated with the Eye of Horus. His own violet eyes reflected muddily back at him through the dusty glass, and he frowned a little, running his finger over the detailed carvings. "What's your obsession with the Eye?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Bakura answered slowly after a moment, "It is a symbol of protection, after all."

"Well, yeah," Marik agreed with a short nod, "But you have collected it a lot."

Bakura smirked, the lazy expression stretching his lips wide as he fixed Marik with a keen gaze. "What do you know of the importance of the Eye?"

Marik shifted again. He kept his expression carefully neutral, debating how much to say. He had already sworn not to keep any more secrets, and he wasn't sure what Bakura would do to him if he didn't reveal everything he knew now. The past few days without talking had already been bad enough. And yet, Marik didn't know how much talking about the Palace would infuriate Bakura more, and he was reluctant to bring up anything regarding the Millennium Items. They would reveal quite how high up his connections with the Palace were.

"Come now, Marik," Bakura spoke in his low, even voice, but there was a burning behind his tone. "I said _no more secrets_."

Despite himself, Marik shivered at the threat he heard behind those words. He drew himself up and fixed Bakura with a sharp stare. "The Eye appears a lot in the Pharaoh's court," he answered, watching Bakura carefully.

Bakura didn't look surprised. Instead, he simply responded with, "I am aware."

Marik blinked. "Wait, you _know_?!"

"Are you so surprised?" Bakura gave a low chuckle, but his grey gaze was cool as he continued to stare at Marik.

Marik's brows furrowed. "Not even everyone in the Palace knows about that."

"I have been to the Palace many times," Bakura answered breezily.

Marik stared, shock overtaking his tone. Bakura, in the Palace? How had he not been caught? Marik knew that the Pharaoh was on constant lookout for the infamous King of Thieves; it was almost unthinkable that he could have missed Bakura, especially on several occasions.

"You look surprised." Bakura sounded amused more than anything as he took in Marik's shocked expression.

"Well, _yeah_ ," Marik sputtered.

Bakura gave another low laugh. "I'd have thought, after knowing me so long, you'd realise that I am capable of many things."

Marik nodded. "I don't deny that – but seriously? The Palace?!"

Bakura gave a smooth nod, his lazy smirk stretching his lips again. "I admit, your shock is rather flattering," he continued airily. "If even the brother of a Priestess is amazed at my talents…"

Marik merely glared at him. "So do you know about the Millennium Items?"

Bakura just barely flinched. It was a tiny movement – barely there at all – but Marik caught it. He noted the slight tightness of Bakura's eyes, the slight tension in his muscles, as he answered carefully, "I am aware of them."

Marik blew out a low whistle, watching Bakura closely. "You _have_ moved in high circles."

"Not quite so high as you." Bakura fixed him with a glare.

Marik's eyes narrowed.

"In fact, _Ishtar_ ," Bakura all but purred, and he drew a silky step closer to Marik, his red cloak flaring around his ankles, "I think you could be of use to me here."

Marik, despite himself, felt his stomach flip. He swallowed, keeping his eyes always trained on Bakura, and tried to ignore the crazy wriggling of his insides and the way Bakura's low tone was sending his pulse racing, his blood pounding through his veins. He drew in a calming breath. "Oh? How so?"

"You must know about the Items," Bakura hummed. He took another step closer, and Marik instinctively found himself backing up. Bakura continued to stalk him, however, until Marik found himself with the cavern wall behind him and Bakura's warm body coming far too close.

Bakura was smirking at him.

Marik summoned up his best glare, though it was weaker than normal. "And if I do?"

"If you do," Bakura murmured, his fingers ghosting down Marik's arms to dance across his hips, "Then you are going to tell me everything you know."

Marik felt his pulse quicken further. He drew in a low, shaky breath, trying to stop his body's predictable reaction to Bakura's teasing fingers. The Thief King was incredibly close now, and his musky, enticing scent teased at Marik's nostrils. He had missed this – this closeness to Bakura – in the few days they had spent apart. Already, he could feel his body craving Bakura's touch.

Marik ignored his screeching hormones as best he could, instead narrowing his eyes. "Why do you want to know?"

Bakura arched a brow, his fingers slowly tracing the jutting bones of Marik's hips. "You don't need to know my motives."

"I beg to differ." Marik's sharp hiss turned into a slight whine when Bakura pressed his lips to Marik's jaw.

"Come on, Marik," Bakura's low voice chuckled. His voice rumbled against Marik's skin as he continued to press small kisses down Marik's jaw, "It will be much easier for you if you just tell me now."

"When have I ever made this easy?" Marik hissed in response.

Bakura gave another low chuckle, and then his hands were on Marik's shoulders, flipping the younger man away from the wall and down to the ground. Marik's back was protected by Bakura's arms, holding him tight, and then Bakura was straddling his hips and slowly moving against him.

This time, Marik couldn't hold back his whine.

"Are you still being stubborn?" Bakura's grey eyes glittered with amusement as he glanced down at Marik.

Marik felt too hot, so all he could do was glare.

"Your decision," Bakura shrugged lightly, though his lazy smirk was threatening to tug at his lips again. He moved his hips in a slow roll, teasing against Marik's, and delighted in the noise he drew from Marik's mouth.

"You're a bastard," Marik griped. He reached his hands up to grab Bakura's cloak, pulling the Thief King down towards him.

Bakura was having none of that. He grasped Marik's wrists in a tight, firm grip, and leaned forward to hold them securely against the dusty cavern ground. Gold clinked and rippled around them as he leaned forwards, still teasingly moving his hips against Marik's. "You were saying?"

Marik glared at him, but didn't trust himself to speak.

Bakura hummed. He bent and attached his lips to Marik's jaw, pressing slow kisses to his skin as he started to move his hips more continuously against Marik's. Marik could quickly feel himself losing control. It felt like too long since he had last been around the Thief King, and his body was craving his warmth, his closeness, desperate for more than Bakura was giving him.

Bakura, of course, knew this. Marik was absolutely certain that the Thief King was doing this _deliberately._ His hips rolled again against Marik's, but the touch was light and teasing, only enough to arouse him without giving him anything more.

"Alright," Marik moaned, his head tipping back when Bakura laid a deliberate bite to his neck, "Alright, what do you want to know?"

Bakura lifted his head just enough to send Marik a satisfied smirk. "The Millennium Items?"

Marik twisted his wrists in Bakura's hold, still glaring at him even as he answered. "Seven Items, holding the Eye of Horus, held by the seven members of the Pharaoh's council. And you'd better let me have what I want after this."

"All in good time," Bakura chuckled, his body still impossibly warm against Marik's. "How would I go about getting hold of these Items?"

Marik stared at him. "You want to _steal_ them?"

"But of course." Bakura chuckled. "Did the title _Thief King_ not give it away?"

Marik glared. "You're mad if you think you can do it."

"Just answer the question."

Marik huffed. "…Well … each Item has its own particular power."

Bakura jerked his head in a nod. "The Necklace, Rod, and Scales I already know about."

Marik blinked. "You do?"

"They're used in public trials often enough." Bakura's expression clouded over for a moment before his smirk returned. "So what of the other four?"

Marik clicked his tongue. "The Key, the Eye, the Puzzle, and the Ring."

Bakura's grey eyes were burning again. "The Puzzle is held by the _Pharaoh_?!"

Marik nodded.

"And the rest?"

"Held by his Priests." Marik's nose wrinkled a little.

Bakura hummed in thought. "And their powers?"

"Mostly useless to you." Marik thought them over before a small crease appeared in his brow. "Although…"

"Yes?" Bakura quirked a brow, his hips dancing against Marik's again when he took too long to answer.

Marik's head snapped back and he hissed to disguise a much more embarrassing sound. "…The Ring … it can detect the presence of the other Items. So if you wanted to get them all, you should probably get that one first."

"Interesting." Bakura's eyes lit up and he grinned.

Marik rolled his eyes. He twisted his hands free of Bakura's grip and tugged his hands through his silver-white hair, hooking one leg around Bakura's ready to flip their positions. "Enough?"

"Not quite." Bakura smirked at him. "Which priest holds the Ring?"

"Mahaad," Marik answered immediately.

Bakura hummed in thought. "The magician?"

Marik nodded, but impatience was beginning to flare through him. He gripped Bakura's shoulders and flipped them over, straddling Bakura's waist and sliding against him. "Yes. Now I'm done playing."

Bakura merely chuckled, wrapping his arms around Marik and pulling him down into a kiss. Marik hummed against him and quickly slid his fingers under Bakura's cloak, pressing against his bare skin once again.

Bakura leaned up to mutter in his ear, "You will tell me more later," before he pulled Marik down on top of him and attacked him with a searing kiss.

…

Some time later, Marik once again found himself lying on Bakura's bare chest, relaxed and fully sated. He nuzzled lightly into Bakura's neck, holding himself close to the thief, his impossibly enticing scent surrounding Marik. Marik closed his eyes with a low hum.

Bakura's fingers were once again running through Marik's blond hair, but there was a slight crease in his brow. He was clearly thinking. A variety of expressions flitted across his features before he settled on his lazy smirk, his fingers tugging once more through Marik's hair. His chest rumbled as he spoke. "So the Ring is the first Item I should steal."

Marik frowned a little at his peace being disturbed. He tipped his face up to meet Bakura's gaze, nodding once. "It'll help you find the others. You'd be mad to try and take it though."

Bakura's brow arched. "Is that a challenge I sense?"

"No." Marik lifted his head up further to glare at him, his violet eyes glittering dangerously.

Bakura smirked. "I will start with the Ring."

"You can't seriously expect to steal it yourself."

"I can and I do." Bakura frowned at Marik, his grey eyes burning dangerously. "Unless you're trying to protect the Palace, _Ishtar_?"

"I wouldn't do that," Marik hissed quietly. He wriggled, disliking the implication that he would _ever_ place Palace security over his life with the thieves now.

Bakura merely continued to send him a challenging stare. He clicked his tongue in the ensuing silence, his eyes distancing a little and his face growing thoughtful. "Of course, perhaps it would make more sense to get the Necklace first. To know the future would be extremely useful…"

Despite himself, Marik flinched. His sister Isis held the Necklace, and as much as Marik was sure that he belonged by Bakura's side rather than in the Palace, he couldn't help but feel a shiver of fear at the thought of the murderous Thief King present in his sister's life.

Bakura, of course, noticed. His eyes hardened as he glared at Marik. "Or will you protect your sister over helping me, hm?"

"I would never return to a life with her," Marik answered immediately.

Bakura lifted a brow, nudging Marik when the silence continued too long. "But?"

"…But…" Marik continued reluctantly, shifting to look away from Bakura, "…I do not relish the thought of her in danger."

Silence held for a short while longer before Bakura gave a low, amused chuckle. "And you think she would be in danger?"

"With you going after her Item?" Marik snorted. "Yeah, I think you might kill her if she gets in your way." Despite himself, Marik felt a shiver of fear at that thought. As much as he had hated his life in the tomb, he didn't begrudge Isis her decisions. He wanted her safe and happy; they had been close as children, after all.

Much to Marik's surprise, a low chortle of laughter rumbled through Bakura's chest. Two warm fingers gripped Marik's chin and turned him up to face Bakura's laughing grey eyes. "And what makes you think _I_ would be the one after the Necklace?"

Marik stopped, fumbling. "…Well … but you just said…"

"I need the Necklace, yes," Bakura hummed, his lips twitching with amusement, "But I was of a mind to send _you_ to see your sister."

Marik's eyes shot wide open. He went completely still.

"After all," Bakura mused, his grey eyes dancing, "She'd likely raise the whole Palace against me, but if her long-lost brother were to show up…"

"I think you're placing too much hope on Isis' feelings for me," Marik answered wryly.

Bakura lifted a brow. "Oh?"

"She _did_ let me be exiled, remember?"

"She would have had little choice in that," Bakura waved an airy hand before wrapping both his arms tight around Marik's back again. "It would be different if you showed up at her doorstep."

Marik nearly choked at the thought. He coughed, inwardly wondering if Bakura had gone slightly mad, or if he was simply teasing him again. Surely he couldn't actually be _serious_? Marik shook his head. "Yeah, there's another slight problem."

"Oh?"

"I'm _exiled_ , remember?"

Bakura merely smirked at him. "I fail to see the issue."

"I'll be _killed_ if I enter the Palace again," Marik reminded him.

"So don't get caught."

Marik's nostrils flared. "I'm not you, Bakura. I can't travel without being seen."

"I've taught you fairly well so far," Bakura answered with a light shrug, "It wouldn't take many more lessons for you to be capable."

Marik glared at him. "Not in the _Palace_."

"And why not?"

"Because no one can get in there unseen!"

"I have," Bakura answered easily.

Marik glowered at him. "I almost don't believe that."

"Oho!" Bakura smirked at him, his grey eyes glittering with a challenge. Without another word of warning, he shoved Marik off his chest (amid a loud grumble) and jumped up to his feet, quickly retrieving his clothes. "In that case, I'll go right now."

Marik rolled upright and stared at him in astonishment. "You're not serious."

"Deadly." Despite Bakura's smug smirk, his tone was sternly serious.

Marik stared at him.

"Don't look like that," Bakura ordered. "I'll get the Ring first, and then send you to Isis."

Marik merely continued to stare. Astonishment took over his every feature, amazement creasing his brow. There was no way Bakura could be serious. He honestly expected just to walk straight up to the Palace's door and steal the Ring, no questions asked, no hope of getting caught? No, he had to be joking.

And yet, his expression was deadly serious.

Marik got slowly to his feet, his eyes never leaving Bakura's face. "And just how do you expect to do that without getting caught?"

"I have my ways," Bakura answered evenly.

Marik bit his inner cheek before replying. "No way."

"Are you doubting my abilities, Marik?"

"I think you're underestimating the Palace." Marik's brows furrowed.

Bakura snorted. "You haven't been there yourself since you were a child. I probably know their defences better than you."

Marik hissed. "And when were _you_ last there huh?"

"A lot more recently than you, I can assure you."

Marik's nostrils flared, but he didn't question any more, knowing deep down that Bakura was probably right. Marik only knew the intricacies of the Palace as they had been six years ago – it was entirely possible that some changes had been made since then. And yet, something inside him twisted at the thought that Bakura could be caught or captured there.

Bakura gave a low chuckle. "You worry too much, Marik."

"I'm not…!" A denial instantly sprung to Marik's lips. "I mean, I didn't…!"

"I know full well what you were doing," Bakura chortled, and his grey eyes were dancing again. "As much as I'm flattered, I will be fine. I'll see you in a few days with the Ring." Without another word, Bakura turned to the door, his red cloak swinging about his ankles.

Marik paused, deliberating for a moment before he called, "Wait."

Bakura turned with an arched brow, only to find Marik flinging himself at him quickly, wrapping his arms tight around his waist. Marik pressed a quick kiss to Bakura's forehead, then stepped back, acting as if nothing had happened. "Just come back safe."

Bakura stood still, startled for a moment, before a slow smirk stretched his lips. He dipped his head once in a nod before stalking out of the caves, his footsteps leaving loud echoes in Marik's ears long after he was gone.

 **And I'm ending here for now. I hope that chapter was ok, it feels a bit bitty to me and it's REALLY long, but it carries the story along well enough, I guess xD Apologies for any typos, I didn't check properly (because I'm lazy xD) and see you soon for another chapter – Jem**


	17. Chapter 17

**Here's another chapter for you, but I think it's actually my weakest so far – not an awful lot happens. Still, I hope you can put up with it whilst I develop the plot, and thank you so much to everyone reading and reviewing, it makes me so happy. I'm glad I catch most of the typos too – they annoy me xD – Jem**

 **Oh also, I literally just finished typing up the rest of this story, and it's 23 chapters in total and gets pretty angsty towards the end. It has a happy ending though, so that makes it ok, right…? xD**

 **Disclaimer: Marik and Bakura belong to Kazuki Takahashi, as does Yu-Gi-Oh!**

Bakura was gone for four days.

Marik spent the majority of this time worrying about him. Every time he sat with the other thieves in the cavern, eating a meal or discussing their next moves, he couldn't help his thoughts dipping back to the Thief King. Time without Bakura was almost painful to him now. It was made far worse, of course, by the thought that Bakura was heading to the _Palace_ , where it was entirely possible that he would be captured and killed without word ever getting back to this cramped network of caves where his small band of thieves resided, waiting for him.

Whenever Marik's thoughts started going down that path, he quickly tore his mind away.

The other thieves seemed to cope with Bakura's absence much better than Marik did. Indeed, they assured Marik that it wasn't unusual for Bakura to disappear at a moment's notice without so much as a word of warning. But, he would always return.

"Are you _sure_?" Marik quizzed one night around the fire, chewing his inner cheek.

Seti gave a loud snort. "Hasn't let us down yet."

Marik grimaced down at the ground. For some reason, he didn't feel very reassured – he thought it was because he knew exactly what Bakura was getting himself into by going to the Palace. It seemed like the highest form of lunacy to him.

A cool, comforting hand landed on Marik's shoulder, and he turned his head to see Anen sending him a knowing look. "You're worried about him, aren't you?"

Marik pursed his lips, a denial instantly springing up in his mind. He didn't want to be worried about the Thief King. He didn't want to consider what that might mean.

"It's alright, tombkeeper," Anen gave a short smile. "I've known the Thief King a long time, and he has never got himself into a mess he can't escape."

"Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything," Marik muttered. He shifted a little to glare away from Anen, his gaze fixing on the dusty ground of the cave. No matter how much the thieves tried to reassure him, Marik had a feeling that his restlessness would not go away until Bakura was safely back by his side.

Thut shook his head at Marik, his high, girlish giggle slipping through the air. "You mope worse than anything."

"I do not!" Marik instantly flared.

"You do," Seti snorted from his corner, placing his long, curved blade over his knees as he set to sharpening it. "Even worse than the chief."

Marik merely glared at him.

"I don't know about that," Anen answered with a thoughtful glance to the ceiling, "The Thief King mopes pretty well."

"I'd see you say that to chief's face," Seti chuckled.

"I would never dare."

"I don't think he'd kill you," Thut inputted helpfully, his tiny eyes bright in the flickering candlelight. "He seems to like you most."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"But you _do_ know him best." Seti leaned closer, his pale eyes glowing with renewed interest. The whetstone rasped against the blade of his knife, his movements almost absent-minded as he looked straight at Anen. "Bet you know all his secrets."

Anen returned the look calmly. "If I did, I'd hardly be fool enough to spill them, now would I?"

"Spoilsport," Seti made a face.

"I just like to stay alive."

Thut tilted his head, his gaze alighting on Marik. "I'm thinking the tombkeeper must know his fair share of secrets by now, too."

Marik gave a loud, derisive snort.

"Aye, happen that he does," Seti agreed with a cheerful grin sent Marik's way.

"Bet he knows where the Thief King's gold is."

"And where he's gone now, for that matter."

"And if he does," Anen cut in smoothly, "He would know to keep his mouth shut."

Thut looked disgruntled, but Marik sent Anen a small smile.

Seti sniffed. "You are such a spoilsport."

"If the Thief King wanted us to know where he's gone, then he would have told us."

"Chief just likes being mysterious," Seti grunted.

Marik glanced away to hide his smile. It was true, after all – Bakura seemed to delight in mystery, in remaining the cold dark face in the shadowy corner of the room. The Thief King was a creature of nightmares, used to scare children into their beds at night. Marik couldn't help but think that Bakura was quite proud of his hard-earned reputation.

As Marik glanced around the camp, his gaze settled on Menes. Despite waking up once a few days before, Menes had been shifting in and out of consciousness, with Ibebi as a constant companion by his side. Marik felt a cold clutch of guilt every time he saw Menes' crinkled features and shifting chest. He was seriously injured, damaged by some of the Palace guards that had been chasing them, and yet all Marik could worry about was Bakura.

No. Not worry. He wasn't worried.

Marik did everything he could to ignore the agonising twisting in his gut whenever he thought of Bakura.

"Speaking of mysterious," Seti was saying mischievously, his pale eyes pinned on Marik with a grin adorning his face, "We still don't know much about the tombkeeper."

Marik flinched automatically, turning back with a scowl on his face. "Don't call me that."

"Oh?" Seti arched a brow.

"I'm not a tombkeeper anymore."

"No," Anen agreed, "You're a thief, like us."

Seti roared with laughter at that. "Tombkeeper turned tombrobber, now there's a tale to tell!"

Marik, despite himself, felt his lips twitch a little. He wondered what on earth his Father would have said, had he known where Marik had ended up, out in here in the desert with this rangy band of thieves. And, Marik realised, he was _enjoying_ this life. It wasn't just because of Bakura, either – though that was certainly pleasant – no, Marik actually liked the company of these sharp, dangerous men. He liked to hear their tales, their banter. They were a refreshing change from the prissy Palace courtiers he was used to.

"Honestly, though," Seti continued, and now his pale eyes were peering straight at Marik with an intensity that Marik didn't much like. "How come you ended up exiled?"

Marik shifted against the ground. He stared down at the dusty floor and curled up into himself, trying to ignore the way the edges of the cave felt as if they closed in around him.

"We all saw the body in the tomb," Thut's low voice rumbled.

Marik flinched at that.

Anen grimaced. "Oh yes, I remember _that_ alright."

"So, tombkeeper?" Seti pressed. "Do we have a murderer on our hands?"

Marik glared down at the ground. He could feel all their gazes trained on him, but oddly, he no longer felt ashamed or frightened. His past didn't feel like it would break him anymore – he still carried it, but he was worth more.

"Yes," he answered lowly, and looked Seti straight in the eyes.

Seti gave a low whistle, amongst imperceptible shifts from the other thieves.

"Who was he?" Anen asked, his eyes keen and discerning as he looked at Marik.

Marik clicked his jaw, shifted, and then answered in a voice almost too low to hear. "My Father."

The shocked silence held for several minutes. Marik kept his eyes firm, looking down at the dusty ground by his crossed feet as he leaned against the rocky edge of the cave. As much as the darkness flickered around him, shadows rearing from the blazing fire, Marik knew he wasn't in the tomb. For the first time, he felt his path truly receding – behind him, where it should be.

"Well," Seti broke the silence with a low chuckle, "Perhaps we have underestimated you, tombkeeper."

Marik, despite himself, felt his lips twitch as he lifted his face back to meet Seti's eyes. "And perhaps I you, too."

"Oh?" Seti arched a brow.

"Well, I still know next to nothing about the rest of you." Marik cast a glance around the cave, noting Menes' shifting form beside the flames, Ibebi sitting close to him with a worried crease in his brow.

Seti snorted. "You know more about the chief than the rest of us."

Marik brushed off that comment to focus the conversation back on the other thieves. "I meant about _you_."

"You know," Anen answered smoothly, "You have a point."

Thut nodded his giant head, his huge frame shifting against the cavernous wall. Beside Seti's thin, wiry frame, he looked like a giant who had got lost and wandered in to join them. "I told you my story, Marik."

"Indeed you did," Marik inclined his head with a grin, "As did Menes. But as for the rest of you…"

"You know about Menes?" Anen looked mildly surprised.

Marik nodded, sending another worried glance over to the injured young man by the flames. He remembered the ease with which Menes had told his horrifying story, which was now confirmed by the awful swirling pattern of burns decorating his left side. He had already been through enough for a lifetime; it didn't seem fair that _he_ was the one to be injured now and fighting for his life.

"Well," Anen continued after a moment, "Then I suppose it is only fair for you to hear the rest of our stories."

Marik turned back to face them, tugging his mind out of the darkness of the past to focus on them instead.

"Seti?" Anen gestured with a grin.

Seti rolled his eyes. "You don't wanna know my tale."

"I beg to differ," Marik answered, his violet eyes sharp.

Seti sent him a keen look. "And why so interested, tombkeeper?"

"You know my story," Marik shrugged, keeping his tone as disinterested as possible, "So it only seems fair."

Seti kept his gaze for another long moment before he gave an easy shrug. "Eh, fair enough, I suppose. I joined the chief a few months ago, on his third time of asking me."

"He _asked_ you?" Marik blinked, slightly surprised.

Seti gave an easy grin. "Aye, that he did. I kept getting in the way of his steals, I think – we were on the same patch, but I was working solo, and he had all this lot on his side." Seti cast a wide arm to gesture to the rest of the thieves.

Thut gave his high, girlish laugh – a welcome humorous sound in the shadows of the cave. "You were giving us enough trouble."

"Took me hours to clean up after one of your messes," Anen added dryly.

Seti sent him a glare.

Marik shook his head a little. "But why were you stealing in the first place?"

"Had to," Seti answered, his tone oddly light although his pale eyes were dim. "Fended for myself since I was cursed."

Marik's eyes narrowed. "Cursed?"

"Yep."

"For the _last time_ ," Ibebi's voice sounded from the other side of the cave, where he sat with Menes, "You are _not cursed_ , Seti."

Seti merely snorted.

Marik blinked, looking between them. He had heard this argument many times before – whenever Seti mentioned a magic amulet, or some cure for his 'curse', Ibebi would always shoot back some response along this vein. But Marik never had learned where this bickering initiated from.

"Surviving doesn't make you cursed," Ibebi continued patiently.

Seti's expression hardened.

Marik sent Ibebi a curious look. "Surviving what?"

Ibebi looked back at him coolly, then back down to Seti, who was now glowering furiously at the dusty ground. Silence held for several long, uncomfortable moments before Seti spoke again, and his usually light voice was tainted with a shadow.

"Plague," he spat. "Took my mama and three little siblings, but I survived. Got cast out of the village for being cursed. Lived on my own until the chief showed up."

Marik stared at him. Suddenly, Seti's easy demeanour and sense of humour made sense – he was hiding his past, just as surely as the rest of them.

A low, patient sigh sounded from Ibebi. "I keep telling you – you weren't cursed."

"Oh yeah?" Seti demanded roughly, his pale gaze still fixed on the floor by his feet. "Then how did I survive?"

"You must have had an immunity," Ibebi answered, his voice tired and monotonous, as if they had had this conversation several times over.

Seti's face screwed up. "That makes even less sense."

"Oh, think what you like," Ibebi answered sharply. He pressed another cooling cloth to Menes' forehead, gently wiping away the sweat that constantly formed on his brow.

Marik glanced between them, his brow a little furrowed. The walls of the cave still felt too close around him, tight and locking him in place, and he had to hold back a shiver at Seti's words. To be pushed out of a village, simply for surviving – and after losing your entire family, too. The horror of it didn't show at all in Seti's demeanour, apart from the occasions that his pale eyes burned. Marik looked to him again now. Seti was glaring down at the dusty cave floor, his booted feet planted firmly on the ground. A deep crevice split his brow in two, and his short, cropped hair clung to his forehead. His pale eyes were stern and masked, his mouth set into a grim line.

Marik flicked a glance back over to Ibebi. "So what of you, healer?"

Ibebi turned his tired eyes on Marik, one brow lifted into a question.

"How did you come to be with the Thief King?" Marik clarified, his head tilting.

Ibebi sighed again. "Come help me change Menes' poultice, and I'll tell you."

Marik nodded. He moved easily across the cave to Menes' side, glancing down at him with a slight worried purse to his lips. Menes looked as out of it as ever, though Marik fancied that there was a little more colour to his cheeks, that his breathing was a little easier. Marik had yet to realise quite how much he wanted Menes to wake up. The camp was not the same without his bright, sunny optimism, or calm way of looking at the world. Marik found he missed Menes almost as much as he missed the Thief King.

"Hold him up," Ibebi commanded.

Marik obediently moved to sit behind Menes, gently lifting up his torso until he was resting back against Marik. Ibebi had the poultice in one hand, his other carefully unwinding the bandages around the wound in Menes' chest. It was healing slowly, and no longer bled outright, but it was still putrid and large and, presumably, very painful.

"So?" Marik asked as he watched Ibebi deftly applying the poultice. "How did you come to travel with the Thief King?"

Ibebi remained silent, thinking for a few moments before he replied. "…I was apprenticed to a healer."

Marik nodded slowly, waiting for Ibebi to continue.

Ibebi sighed. "He was a travelling healer, my Master – we moved between villages and cities, even leaving Egypt on occasion. He liked to collect herbs from exotic places, experimenting with medicine. He was a wonderful man."

"So what happened?" Marik pressed.

Ibebi's expression darkened a little. "I … took a liking to his daughter."

Marik's brows shot up.

"No need to look like that," Ibebi chuckled wryly, flicking his dark eyes upon Marik's features. "She returned my sentiments. But, my Master had already matched her with a Lord, so … it became easier for him to send me away."

Marik's eyes widened a little. "And you left?"

"Not by choice." A slight flicker of pain flitted across Ibebi's face. "I asked her to come with me. But, at the last minute, she refused to defy her father."

Marik's brow furrowed. Silence held for a moment or two, in which he watched Ibebi continue to spread the poultice on Menes' chest, before wrapping the bandages tight around his chest. Menes shifted a little, his face grimacing.

"I'm sorry," Marik eventually responded.

Ibebi paused, stilling, before he jerked his head once in a nod.

"What was her name?" Marik asked softly.

"…Khemut," Ibebi answered after a moment, and his tone was full to the brim with yearning.

Marik held back a slight shiver. The look in Ibebi's eyes was one he recognised – full of pain, of worry, of a longing for a life that was forever beyond him. It reminded Marik of the way he felt whenever he looked at the Thief King.

But no. He didn't want to think about what that might mean.

Ibebi's smooth face creased, lines pressing against his forehead as he spoke again, and now his tone was brisk. "But, that was a long time ago now. I found the Thief King soon after I was sent away."

"How did that happen?" Marik questioned.

Ibebi grinned and flicked a glance over at Thut. " _That one_ managed to get himself injured in a hunt. I happened across him bleeding on the sand."

Thut growled, "That jackal surprised me."

Ibebi chuckled. "Regardless, I healed him, and in return he said he would bring me to his leader. I got the shock of my life when I was met with the Thief King."

"Your face was a picture," Anen remembered with a low chuckle.

"Almost as much as the tombkeeper's," Thut agreed with a smirk sent Marik's way.

Marik merely glared at him.

Even Ibebi was smiling now. He laid Menes carefully back down by the fire, pressing the cool cloth back against his forehead.

Marik glanced around the band of rangy men. At first glance, they seemed so dangerous, ruthless even – as if they would never let anything get in between them and their goals. They all held an undying loyalty to Bakura; that much was obvious from the moment Marik first walked into their camp. But, Marik was beginning to see the stories behind them all. In the end, they were all just men whom life had wronged, and they were now doing their utmost to scrape an existence.

They were not bad men. In fact, they were better than any Marik had met in the Palace.

Marik's gaze settled on Anen – the only thief whose story he still did not know.

Anen returned his look with a one arched brow. "And I suppose you wish to know my tale, now?"

"Well, it seems only fair," Marik answered with a slight grin.

Anen snorted. "Fair, perhaps, but I still shall not tell you."

Marik's face fell slightly. "Why?"

"My story is tied together with the Thief King's," Anen answered softly, though his dark eyes were trained on Marik with a directness that he didn't much like. "If he has not shared with you, then it is not my place to spill his secrets."

Marik pursed his lips. He had suspected as much – after all, Anen knew Bakura's name, and by all accounts had been with him the longest. He would never spill Bakura's story without his express permission, though, and his loyalty to Bakura was impressively evident. And yet, Marik found himself itching with curiosity.

Fortunately, he wasn't the only one.

Seti gave a disgruntled sigh. "Can you not at least tell us how you met him?"

Anen simply tapped the side of his nose, a sly smile spreading across his face.

Thut gave his high, girlish laugh. "Anen has just as many secrets as the Thief King himself."

"I don't think that's quite possible," Marik added wryly.

Seti shot him a grin. "Bet you know your fair share though, tombkeeper."

"Nice try, but I don't want to get murdered either."

Seti made a face at him before he turned back to Anen. "Can you not just tell us your bits? Not the chief, I get that."

Anen pursed his lips. He glanced between Thut, Seti, and Marik, and even Ibebi who glanced over with interest from his place by Menes' side. Silence held for another few moments before Anen relented with a small sigh. "I suppose. I have lived alone for as long as I can remember – I had an older brother, who cared for me when I was very young, but my parents died so long ago that I don't remember them."

"What happened to him?" Marik asked.

"He was caught stealing when he was fifteen and I was thirteen." Anen's eyes darkened. "The guards were swift in carrying out their punishment."

Seti winced. "Cut off his hand?"

Anen nodded, his face grim.

Marik, despite himself, flinched at the thought of that. He had, of course, heard of the infamous punishment for captured thieves, but he couldn't imagine it being carried out.

"He wasn't the same after that," Anen continued thoughtfully. "Killed himself a few months later. Thought he couldn't provide for me. I coped well enough on my own after that, until I found the Thief King."

Marik stared at him, curiosity once again burning through his veins. "So you did find him?"

"He was very young," Anen mused quietly, his dark eyes faraway, "A child. And he had seen far too much."

Marik wet his lips. It was difficult for him to imagine Bakura as a young boy – he seemed so confident, arrogant even, and so self-assured that it was hard to imagine him in any sort of vulnerable position. He could feel curiosity itching within him, and slowly he realised that he wanted to uncover all of Bakura's secrets, to find out far more about his past than the thief had so far let him see. After all, Marik held no more secrets from Bakura – it was only fair that the favour was returned.

Anen seemed to come back to himself, and a small, sardonic smile twitched at his lips again. "Enough of secrets. I'm ravenous."

With no further preamble, the thieves set about preparing a meal for the evening, but Marik found his thoughts constantly preoccupied with Bakura, longing to have his familiar warmth back by his sided again.

…

Nights without the Thief King were difficult for Marik.

He had grown accustomed to the warmth of another body by his side, and a comforting arm around him to stop his thoughts from dipping back into the shadows of the past. Now, as Marik lay shivering in the main chamber long after the fire had gone out, with blackness pressing like cloth against his eyelids, he found the nightmares once again rending his skull in two. Being in a cave didn't help. Without being able to see the open sky, Marik found himself struggling to get anything close to an easy sleep. When he did, he would always wake gasping for breath, his heart racing with terror that was unabated when he once again found himself surrounded by enclosed walls.

And so, Marik took to walking at night.

Once he was awakened from one nightmare or another, Marik would get quietly to his feet and wrap his robes around him before padding carefully out of the cave. His feet would always take him back out to the surface. Marik never wandered far – he knew that, were he to meet any guards from the Palace, he would likely not survive the encounter, and so, he stuck close to the entrance of the caves as he walked outside.

It was refreshing to feel sand beneath his feet again. The sky spread out above him, whirling with its endless array of stars and moon, and Marik found his heart would calm and his mind would settle as soon as he could see the endless stretch of desert around him again. He was no longer trapped underground. He was no longer bound to his tombkeeper's fate. No – now, he was free.

No matter how far he walked, however, Marik could still never completely untangle the knot of worry in his stomach.

Constantly, his thoughts would drift back to Bakura. It didn't matter how often Marik told himself that there was nothing he could do save wait, and Bakura clearly knew what he was doing, and he was a master thief who had probably done far more dangerous things than this in his lifetime, Marik couldn't help but keep worrying. He hated not having Bakura by his side. He hated knowing that Bakura was somewhere dangerous, and be unable to do anything to help him.

Marik tried not to examine his feelings too closely. He didn't want to think about what it may mean, that he could barely function without the Thief King by his side.

As dawn started to tint the horizon red on the fourth day since Bakura's disappearance, Marik made his way back down into the network of caves. He found Ibebi already awake. The healer barely seemed to sleep, so tied up with Menes was he. Indeed, even now, when the other thieves were barely stirring, Ibebi was pressing a cooling cloth against Menes' forehead as he prepared to change the poultice.

"Marik," Ibebi stated as soon as he saw Marik re-enter the chamber, "Just the person. Come and help me."

Marik nodded, crossing to Menes' side. He once again supported Menes' shoulders, watching as Ibebi's deft fingers made quick work of unwinding the bandages. The wound was still pink and sore, but it looked much better, at least to Marik's untrained eye. Marik cleared his throat, his voice a little raspy. "Do you think he's improving?"

"Slowly," Ibebi nodded, his gaze fixed on his work.

"Will he wake soon?"

"I should hope so." Ibebi finished packing the poultice in, and reached for the bandages. "We've managed to keep infection out so far, thank Ra."

Marik nodded. He glanced back down at Menes' face, and he certainly seemed to be a little more peaceful today. His face was smooth, at least, rather than creased with pain or discomfort.

Once he was resting again, and the other thieves began to stir, Marik turned to prepare breakfast. The one good thing about Bakura's continued absence was the lack of a need for meat – whilst the other thieves enjoyed it, no one had quite the same enthusiasm for it as Bakura, and Marik was rather relieved about that. He would eat the meat if it was offered, more to stop being teased by the others, but he didn't like it very much. He was much happier with a simple vegetable broth.

It was much later that day when Ibebi's startled cry echoed through the large cavern. "He's awake!"

Marik's head shot up from where he had been lounging by the entrance to the cave. In seconds, he was up on his feet and running back through to the main cavern. His eyes lit up at the sight that met his eyes. Ibebi was crouched on the rocky ground, one arm around Menes' shoulders as Menes himself sat up carefully, one hand pressed to the wound on his chest. Although a little shaky, Menes' eyes were wide open behind his gold-rimmed glasses, and there was a slight tint of colour to his cheeks.

Marik felt a small rush of relief flood through his veins. He approached with a grin. "Hey, Menes."

Menes' gaze alighted on Marik, and a smile spread straight across his lips. "Marik!"

"How do you feel?"

"Better, thank you."

Ibebi gave a low snort. "You must be lying, Menes."

"I honestly don't feel that bad." Menes glanced down, carefully examining the bandaged wound in his chest with just the slightest hint of a wince.

Marik's lips twitched. "You have a hole in you."

"It doesn't really feel like it." Menes sounded a little breathless, but other than that, he was almost exactly the same as Marik remembered him.

Ibebi shook his head. "Be that as it may, you must stay still and rest. Lie back down."

Menes grimaced. "But I feel like I need to stretch."

"I'm not risking you opening the bandages. Down. Now."

Menes gave a small laugh, obediently lying back down on his rough blanket. He shifted a little.

Marik came to sit beside him, watching him closely. Menes did look an awful lot better than he had – his cheeks were flushed, his skin smooth, although his hair was sticking up haphazardly around him, rather than tied back in its usual low ponytail. Menes shifted a little. "Is there any food?"

"Of course." Marik reached for the large bowl of broth, pausing for a moment to glance at Ibebi. "…It is ok for him to eat this, right?"

Ibebi nodded once. "As long as he has the herb mix straight after."

Menes grimaced a little. However, he accepted the broth eagerly, and sent Ibebi a small smile. "Thank you for caring for me."

Ibebi waved him away. "It's my job."

"Still, thank you." Menes sat up again whilst he ate, a little shakily, and obediently kept as still as he could to ensure that Ibebi wouldn't yell at him. His clear dark eyes, clouded a little with pain, glanced around the camp, taking in the other thieves. Thut, Anen, and Seti also came over to greet him, and Menes looked cheered just by their company more than anything else. Marik couldn't help but feel a little warm tug in his stomach as he glanced at them. The thieves were closer to a family than anything Marik had experienced before, save perhaps Isis when they were young.

Menes glanced around again, a small crease appearing in his brow. "Where is the Thief King?"

"Only the Gods know," Seti answered with a snort.

Menes looked at him questioningly.

"He went out on a mission," Thut answered in his deep voice, tearing into a mouthful of spiced bread.

"Ah," Menes nodded. "How long has he been gone?"

"This is the fourth day," Marik answered immediately, then felt a small flush lift to his cheeks. He glared down at the ground to mask it.

Menes' eyes widened a little. "Four days?!"

Marik nodded.

"How long have I been out?"

"Six," Ibebi answered wryly, "And you're lucky you're awake now."

Menes floundered a little. "Six … six days?"

Ibebi nodded.

Menes shook his head, taking in a slow breath. He looked disorientated. Marik flashed him a grin, which Menes gratefully returned, although he still looked a little shaky.

The conversation was much merrier that evening, now that Menes' sunny optimism was back with them. They had all missed the young man's calm nature. Menes himself seemed pleased to be back in their company, pushing his glasses up his nose as he tucked into more of the broth. For the first time in days, rounds of raucous laughter echoed through the cavern, warming the atmosphere more than the bright flames of the fire had ever managed.

 **I'm going to end the chapter here, though it's a bit abrupt and not much happened. Aheh. I hope that's ok. This chapter was getting really long so I think it's better to split it here and give you fluff next chapter xD hope you liked, and thanks so much for reading! – Jem**


	18. Chapter 18

**Back with a new chapter, and I hope you like it! Thanks so much for everyone still reading this story, I hope you like it – Jem**

 **Warnings for this chapter: some steamy teasing, and then fluff**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are Kazuki Takahashi's, not mine**

Menes soon tired, and Ibebi shooed all the other thieves away so that he could get his rest. They all curled up in their corners, with their blankets tight around them, but Marik wasn't ready to sleep yet. He could still feel the press of his nightmares settling against his skull.

Once all the others had settled and the cave was silent save for the crackling of the flames, Marik got slowly to his feet. He padded out of the main chamber and followed the twisting network of caves back out to the entrance, where he leaned against the rough wall and gazed up at the sky. The stars had risen, the sun long set, and the night sky was a deep, velvety blue. Marik gave a low sigh. He instantly felt better as soon as he saw the sky stretching above him, and he wasn't enclosed between four walls, but something still felt wrong. Without Bakura by his side, it was like part of his innards had gone walkabout and left a gaping hole in their wake.

Marik shook his head. Stupid thoughts. Four days without the Thief King, and already Marik missed him an almost unbearable amount. He closed his eyes and imagined Bakura's arms around him, his musky scent surrounding him again. He imagined the warmth of Bakura, the silky sensation of his hair through Marik's fingers, and the roughness of his scar. Marik felt his stomach flip. The thought of being without Bakura was ridiculous, and Marik found it difficult to believe that a scarce few months ago he had been terrified at even the vaguest mention of the Thief King.

As Marik had his eyes closed, he didn't notice the shadowy figure approaching from the horizon.

Bakura paused for a moment as he drew near the network of caves. His breathing was a little ragged, his body a little weak, but his eyes were bright and his familiar smirk was at his lips. There was a clang of new metal about his neck.

Bakura's eyes alighted upon the figure at the mouth of the caves. It was late, so Bakura had half-expected his men to be sleeping when he finally made it back, but there was the one person he had most wanted to see, waiting for him in the moonlight. A glimpse of blond hair, the swish of a purple cloak, told Bakura exactly who was waiting for him. As he got closer, he saw that Marik's eyes were closed, and he smirked. He had missed surprising his partner.

Moving with silent footsteps, Bakura crossed to stand right in front of Marik. Then, he reached out and, without warning, wrapped his arms around Marik and pulled him in for a kiss.

Marik gave a startled squeak against his lips.

In shock, Marik flew his eyes open and pulled back, his body automatically fighting. However, arms were tight around his back, holding him in place, and an incredibly familiar scent was filling his nostrils. Marik's eyes went wide. He pulled back for a second, struggling to take in the figure before him. A red cloak, dark skin … a scarred right cheek…

Marik let out a loud laugh. "Bakura!"

Bakura merely smirked at him.

Marik laughed again, delighted, and then pulled Bakura closer and kissed him. Bakura chuckled against him, leaning up to loop his arms around Marik's neck, and Marik tightened his grip around Bakura's waist. They kissed for a long time, reacquainting themselves with each other, once again getting used to being in each other's company. What had been urgent touches turned soft, gentle.

Eventually, Marik pulled back, and fixed Bakura with a hard stare. "Are you alright?"

"So little faith in me, Marik." Bakura's low tone was impossibly familiar, and his lazy smirk stretched across his face again.

Marik's eyes narrowed. "Just tell me you're alright."

"I'm fine."

Slightly disbelieving, Marik stepped back and walked around Bakura, examining him closely. He certainly _looked_ alright.

Bakura arched a brow, his low tone amused. "Much as I appreciate you checking me out, I really _am_ alright."

"Then that's a damn miracle." Marik pursed his lips, striding back around to Bakura's front to look him straight in the eyes.

Bakura shook his head, his lips still twitched upwards. "You honestly believe I'd let myself get caught?"

"You _went_ to the _Palace_."

"I've been many times before." Bakura chuckled again, reached out, and tugged Marik into his chest. "Never had someone worry about me, though."

"I was not worried!" Marik narrowed his eyes, but pressed his face into Bakura's shoulder, taking a moment to breathe in his familiar scent. It had only been a matter of days, and yet Marik had missed this more than he was willing to admit.

Bakura merely chuckled again. He closed his eyes and held Marik tight, burying his head in Marik's golden hair. "You look even more like a jewel than I remember."

Marik paused for a moment, blinking. "…Did I hear that right?"

"Probably."

Marik blinked again, and then a slow smile stretched across his lips. "Wow. An actual compliment."

"Don't go getting a big head," Bakura snorted.

Marik leaned back enough to send Bakura a snarky grin. "Coming from _you_?"

Bakura's lips twitched. He leaned closer again, unable to stop himself from pressing another kiss to him, this time to Marik's forehead. Marik hummed, his eyes sliding closed, and tightened his grip around Bakura.

After another few moments, Bakura spoke again. "I didn't expect you to be awake."

"I wanted to see the stars," Marik answered without thinking, relaxing against Bakura's chest.

Bakura paused for a moment, understanding crossing his features, and he nodded once. He couldn't resist poking a little more fun at Marik, though. "And here I thought you'd just be looking out for me."

Marik snorted, but played along. "Oh, of course! I couldn't sleep without you, oh great Thief King!" Sarcasm tugged at his tone and he grinned.

Bakura growled dangerously.

Marik snickered and nuzzled into Bakura's neck, nipping softly at his skin. Bakura tilted his head back, giving an appreciative hum, and allowed his eyes to slide closed.

"Did you get to the Palace?" Marik murmured against his skin.

Bakura grinned. "Of course."

Marik tilted his head up, eliciting a low growl from Bakura. Marik narrowed his eyes. "Seriously? You did?"

"Don't you believe me?"

"…It's difficult to believe."

Bakura held Marik's gaze, his grey eyes dancing, and he reached under his cloak to draw out a circular band of golden metal. Marik's eyes widened when he recognised the Ring. In a flash, he reached out, gripping the golden band in surprise. "You actually got it?!"

"Did you honestly doubt me?" Bakura shook his head, his low tone still rife with amusement.

Marik sent him a hard stare. "I still think it was stupid to go to the Palace."

"Good thing I don't listen to you, then."

"Bakura!" Marik glared.

Bakura merely grinned back at him. He reached out and pulled Marik against him again, nuzzling into his neck. "You probably shouldn't bitch at me this much. I don't usually allow it."

"I do not _bitch_ ," Marik instantly argued.

Bakura just snorted at that.

Marik sighed, but relented after a moment, sinking into Bakura's hold. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms tight around the thief.

"How are the others?" Bakura murmured after a few moments.

"Menes woke up," Marik replied. "And the others are fine. Sleeping now, probably."

A slow grin stretched Bakura's lips, and he gripped Marik's hand, stepping back to tug him into the caves. "Better and better. I'll catch up with them tomorrow."

"Oh?" Marik lifted a brow. "Then what will you do now?"

Bakura grinned at him. He pulled Marik close suddenly. "I have a bit of an inkling to see you naked on top of some gold."

Marik squawked, and then rolled his eyes a little. "You really must have missed me."

"Four days is a long time for some things."

"You don't have to tell me that," Marik muttered, and then sent Bakura a sly wink.

Bakura grinned in response, pulling Marik towards his treasure chamber.

The next morning, Marik awoke from a truly deep sleep, and that told him that Bakura had to be back by his side. For once, no nightmares clung to his lashes as he blinked his eyes open, and although the chamber was still dark and crowded and too close to the tomb for true comfort, Marik didn't feel the familiar cold fingers of fear wrap around his heart.

There was warmth by his side, and a familiar touch in his hair. Marik turned his head, finding himself once again lying on Bakura's chest, with the thief's warm hands stroking through his hair. Through the darkness, he couldn't make out anything of Bakura's appearance, but he would have known his scent anywhere. With a soft sigh, Marik nuzzled closer.

The hand stilled for a moment, and then Bakura gave a low chuckle as his fingers tangled once more in Marik's golden strands. "I see you still enjoy falling asleep on me."

"I don't hear you complaining," Marik answered sleepily.

"On the contrary," there was a smile in the Thief King's voice, " _I_ don't mind if you're here."

Marik felt a grin stretch his lips despite himself. He could feel the rough wool of a blanket covering him, and hear the slight clink of gold close by where their bodies rested. It was pleasantly cool, even with Bakura's burning body close to his side. Marik turned his face into Bakura's chest and closed his eyes again, taking the time simply to rest and relish in having him close. He had missed this even more than he realised in the short time that Bakura had been away.

Bakura, for his part, did not move away. He nosed Marik's hair, feeling the softness of the strand, and wished he could see the brilliance of its colour in the shadows of the cave. He allowed the calm atmosphere to remain for a few minutes before breaking the silence conversationally. "I saw your sister in the Palace."

Marik instantly went still.

"I must say," Bakura continued, his tone low and amused, "She doesn't look anything like you."

Marik huffed. "At least you aren't freaking out about me being related to her anymore."

"There's still time for that, Marik." Bakura's tone turned dark for an instant, and his grip tightened around Marik's shoulders.

Marik twisted his head up to glare at him through the darkness. His tone, when he spoke, was tainted with irritation. "Are you seriously going to judge me by my family?"

"I probably should," Bakura answered calmly.

Marik's glare increased, a crease appearing in his brow. He shifted a little in Bakura's grip, rolling to face the other way.

"If you were anyone else, I would," Bakura continued, his voice low. "But with you…"

Marik felt his pulse quicken in his throat when arms wound around behind him, and a warm chest pressed to his back. Lips moved to his ear, and then a warm finger touched the tip of the scar on Marik's left shoulder.

Marik jerked automatically.

Bakura held him steady as his finger began to trace the pattern of scars. Even in the blackest of caves, Bakura knew the pattern, his finger moving with soft assurance across the marred flesh of Marik's back. Marik trembled a little, his eyes squeezing tight shut.

"I cannot place you with them," Bakura breathed eventually as he reached the base of Marik's back, "Not when they did this to you."

Marik released a slow, shuddering breath. Relief swept through his veins. He turned once more to face Bakura, just about making out his shadowy figure in the darkness, and lifted a hand to trace down Bakura's side. "Good," he answered, and was proud when his voice didn't shake.

The silence turned a little questioning.

"I would not wish you to be angry with me," Marik continued slowly, "And I know you are angry with the people of the Palace."

"What was your first clue?" Bakura chuckled, but there was a burning anger behind his tone.

Marik didn't answer. Instead, his eyes grew serious and he rolled back on top of Bakura, holding him down so he couldn't escape. Marik lifted his left hand and placed it against Bakura's scarred cheek, feeling the rough skin beneath his palm as he leaned close. In the silence, he could hear Bakura's heartbeat quicken. "Why?"

Bakura remained still beneath him. "Why what?"

"Why do you harbour such hatred for them?"

"You shouldn't question me, Marik," Bakura answered with a low chuckle, but Marik didn't miss what still sounded like burning anger behind his tone.

Marik shook his head, keeping his palm pressed against Bakura's cheek. "You know all my secrets."

"Eventually," Bakura's tone turned wry, "And it took you long enough to tell me everything."

Marik's nose wrinkled. "I knew you'd react badly."

"So you do have _some_ sense in that pretty head of yours."

Marik whacked his chest, snorting. "Enough to know that you'd have killed me. I didn't even want to tell you when I did."

"So why did you?"

Marik shifted a little. A grimace flitted across his features as he thought back. "I had a nightmare."

"Oh believe me, I noticed," Bakura responded dryly.

Marik shifted a little, pressing his face into Bakura's shoulder. He shuddered slightly at the remembered horror, and then at waking up to Bakura's fury. He hadn't known, until then, just how much he was growing to rely upon Bakura's presence to make him feel safe, and it had scared him more than a little to see how coldly Bakura treated him.

Bakura gave a low sigh, tightening his grip around Marik. "You haven't had a nightmare since then."

"Not in your presence," Marik corrected after a moment.

"Oh really?" Interest caught in Bakura's tone.

Marik sighed. "Yes, for some reason, being in your presence seems to help."

Bakura gave a low chuckle. "I think I should be flattered."

"You should."

"It's strange, really," Bakura mused aloud, keeping his grip tight around Marik, "Considering I am usually the one inspiring nightmares, not helping with them."

Marik snorted. "I'm not some simple baker's son."

"Clearly." Bakura heaved a loud, sarcastic sigh. "I must confess myself disappointed that my reputation isn't having such an effect on you anymore, though."

Marik grinned despite himself. He shifted to meet Bakura's grey eyes, just about making out the dancing grey through the blackness of the cave. He couldn't resist the chance to dig a little teasing at Bakura. "Please. It didn't take long to realise that you're just as kind and soft as a kitten at heart."

Bakura gave a low, dangerous growl. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, as soon as I got to know you, I knew there was no reason to be afraid."

Bakura growled again, and suddenly, Marik was on his back. His wrists were trapped against the dusty ground by Bakura's warm, strong hands, and his grey eyes were dancing down at him. His voice was still low and dangerous, although amusement leaked into it. "You play a dangerous game in teasing me, little tombkeeper."

Marik merely grinned up at him. "Sure thing, little kitten."

Bakura growled again, and bent down to nip at Marik's neck in retribution. Marik writhed under him for a moment, releasing a delicious noise, until Bakura was satisfied with the mark he had left and leaned into his chest with a low hum. Marik chuckled, lifting a hand to thread his fingers through Bakura's silver-white hair.

"Back to my original point," Bakura grumbled after a moment, "I saw your sister."

Marik's fingers stilled in Bakura's hair.

Bakura gave a grunt and nudged his head against Marik's hand, doing nothing to refute Marik calling him a kitten. Marik had to fight to keep the smile off his lips as he began to stroke through Bakura's hair again, keeping his tone carefully neutral as he answered. "How is she?"

"She seemed alright," Bakura shrugged, "I wasn't paying much attention."

Marik's brow creased a little at that. "I still find it hard to believe you got to the Palace alone."

"Such little faith in me."

"I know the Palace. They're on constant watch for you."

Bakura snickered. "Then they don't do a very good job."

"Clearly." Marik shook his head with a low snort. "How did you get the Ring?"

"It wasn't too difficult. I followed Mahaad for a while, long enough to see where he slept, anyway. Snuck into his chamber when he was out at the court of the _Pharaoh_." Bakura's tone twisted with disdain at that name.

Marik's brow furrowed a little. He was still itching to know exactly why Bakura hated the Pharaoh so much, but he was wise enough to know that he wouldn't find out by constantly questioning Bakura. About the best he could hope for was that Bakura would trust him enough to tell him voluntarily, one day.

Marik had a feeling he'd be waiting a very long time.

"How do you move around the Palace without getting seen, though?" Marik eventually questioned.

Bakura gave a low, dangerous chuckle. "A thief has his ways."

"That isn't an answer."

"Marik, I don't think you're really very interested in the intricacies of my movements," Bakura propped his chin up on Marik's chest, looking him straight in the eyes through the darkness, "And I'm more interested in getting you in to see your sister."

Marik went still. He almost spluttered. "Excuse me?"

"You _do_ recall my plan, don't you?" Bakura's tone was still faintly amused, although there was no way he could be oblivious to Marik's horror.

Marik sat up quickly, shoving Bakura off him and eliciting a low growl. "You can't be serious."

"We've been over this, Marik."

"I'm _exiled_ ," Marik hissed, "Or had you forgotten that?"

"And?" Bakura was smirking; Marik could feel it, even he couldn't see it through this darkness. There was a faint rustle, accompanied by a clink of gold. "I have proved how simple it is to get into the Palace."

"For _you_!" Marik almost sounded strangled.

"I can teach you."

"I'm not the Thief King!"

"I should hope not," Bakura snorted.

Marik was breathing a little heavily as he glared in the direction that Bakura's voice was coming from. Without the Thief King's arms around him, Marik could feel the walls closing around him again, reminding him all too acutely of growing up in the tomb. He held back a shiver, but his hands were trembling. "I can't just walk into the Palace!"

"It isn't so difficult," Bakura responded patiently.

"Easy for you to say!"

"Because it _isn't_."

Marik glared at him, digging his nails deep into his palms. "How can you seriously expect this to work?"

"Because I will be right there with you," Bakura answered patiently, "And I've done this many times before."

Marik gritted his teeth, his heavy breaths echoing through the silence.

Bakura gave a low sigh. "Your sister will be much more likely to listen to you than to me. We need her Item."

"I know," Marik hissed, "And I still think you're overestimating her affection for me."

"I doubt it," Bakura's lips twitched, "And if I am, I'll just get you out of there before she can raise the guards."

Marik glared at him, just about making out his shape through the shadows. "You seem very confident about this."

"I have every reason to be."

"Well, _I_ don't."

Bakura gave another low chuckle, and then a warm hand landed on Marik's arm, grounding him in the darkness of the cave. "Do you honestly have such little faith in me?"

"I just don't think your top priority is keeping me safe," Marik grouched in response.

There was a pause, followed by Bakura sounding genuinely surprised. "Why would you think such a thing?"

Marik huffed. "Because I doubt you would save me over getting an Item. Or getting yourself safe, for that matter."

Another silence held for a moment, and then Marik suddenly felt arms wrap tight around him as Bakura dragged him into his chest. A low chuckle sounded in Marik's ear. "Surely you've known me long enough to not believe that."

Marik blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Marik," Bakura stated sternly, "I place the safety of my men above my own life at all times."

Marik stirred at that, thinking back. It had certainly seemed that way with Menes. Marik almost shuddered when he remembered how recklessly Bakura had lunged for Menes' horse, galloping across the desert to save him with no mind for his own safety. And Menes himself had told Marik before that Bakura was always the first to go into a tomb, or take on a guard.

"Especially with _you_ ," Bakura murmured, his lips close to Marik's ear. "Do you honestly think I would allow you to get in harm's way?"

Marik pursed his lips, thinking it over for a little longer, before he sank against Bakura's chest. "Are you saying I can trust you?"

"I think you already do," Bakura answered, and his tone was almost … gentle. "I think you have for quite some time now."

Marik went still at that. He didn't much like the implication behind those words, even though he knew he couldn't truly refute them. Bakura was the only person in the entire world to know all of Marik's story – he knew Marik's motives, Marik's emotions, Marik's deepest feelings and darkest secrets. And yet, he still held Marik close.

Marik closed his eyes and spoke into the darkness. "Damn it all to hell, Bakura. Yes, I trust you."

Bakura's grin was evident in his voice. "So you will assist me with your sister?"

"Yes," Marik answered wryly. "If I'm going to hell with you, I might as well follow you all the way."

Bakura's only response was to pull Marik closer, searching his face with his lips.

The other thieves greeted Bakura jovially when he and Marik eventually made it back into the main cavern. There was food around the usual flickering fire, and Menes was looking much better too. He was dressed, and upright, and moving around a little, always under the stern eye of Ibebi, who hovered over him in much the way a mother hen fluttered over her chicks. The expression would almost have been comical, had Marik not known the serious nature of Menes' injuries.

As they seated themselves around a dinner, Bakura addressed Ibebi with a knowing smirk. "Is Menes well enough to travel?"

"Oh, don't worry about me, Thief King," Menes immediately answered, his eyes a little round.

Bakura rolled his eyes. "I wasn't talking to you."

"Oh, my apologies, my King…"

"Ibebi?"

Ibebi pursed his lips, eyeing Menes closely. "…Not tonight. But perhaps by the morning, if he rests well and takes his medicine."

Menes made a slight face.

"Excellent." Bakura leaned back, slinging an easy arm around Marik's shoulders, who was, as always, by his side. "Tomorrow, we break camp."

This immediately caught all the thieves' attention. They turned to look at Bakura with varying expressions, although excitement seemed to glitter in each and every one of their gazes. Marik got the feeling that none of the thieves were particularly used to staying in one place for too long, and after the length of time spent in this network of caves, they were all feeling a little restless. Marik had to admit that he felt the same – he still didn't much like being unable to see the sky.

"What's the plan, chief?" Seti asked, his pale eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Bakura's lazy smirk stretched across his lips. "It's time for another raid on the Palace."

A low whistle rumbled through the camp.

Anen was the first to speak. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Oh, believe me, the time was never better."

Thut's face stretched into a wide grin. "What are we after this time?"

"Well," Bakura sent Marik a sidelong smirk, "The tombkeeper and I have some … business … with someone there. The rest of you are going to be a diversion."

Seti arched a brow. "What sort of business?"

"And with who?" Thut rumbled.

Bakura merely slyly tapped the side of his nose.

Marik felt an odd sense of relief that he wasn't revealing more – after all, Marik had no idea how the other thieves may react if they ever found out about Marik's connection with Isis and the Palace court. Bakura finding out had been bad enough.

Seti, however, seemed disgruntled. "Keeping more secrets, eh, chief?"

"Always, Seti."

Seti huffed.

Anen, however, was sending Bakura a long, searching glance, and then his dark eyes suddenly shifted to fixate on Marik. Marik felt a chill run down his spine. Anen's gaze was oldest, and wisest, and Marik suddenly feared that he was seeing far too much. _Does he know? … Could he know?_

"What sort of diversion do you need?" Ibebi asked briskly, as business-like as always.

Bakura gave a light shrug. "Be creative. Draw the Priests out of the Palace – the Pharaoh too, if you can manage it. But nothing too risky – I don't want any of your getting caught." He levelled a stern glare around them all.

Thut merely grinned, fingering his axe. "You needn't to be worried about that."

"I should hope not."

"So what will you and Marik be doing in the meantime?" Menes piped up from his corner.

Bakura glared at him. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Menes' face fell slightly.

"Incidentally," Bakura continued, "You're not going."

Menes blinked. "Thief King?"

"You're still injured. You'll be staying with the horses and guarding camp."

Menes made a slight face, but he didn't argue. In all honesty, he knew that he would be worse than useless in a fight at the best of times, never mind when there was still a barely-healed arrow wound in his chest.

Bakura gave a satisfied nod when he received no further argument. "Rest well tonight. Tomorrow will be a day of hard riding, as will the next few, until we are close enough to the Palace."

The thieves all grunted to show they had heard. After they had eaten, they went to their respective corners to settle down for a sleep. Marik curled himself back up in Bakura's arms, and tried not to think too much about what he had agreed to.

The prospect of seeing Isis again was almost more terrifying than living with a band of thieves had first seemed.

After all, his sister still had no idea exactly what had happened to their Father. Marik was under no illusion that she would be furious, upset, and horrified were she ever to find out the truth, and Marik could not allow that to happen. He couldn't risk her raising the Pharaoh and the guards, especially not when he had Bakura with him. Whatever the Thief King's arrogance, Marik knew he was not infallible.

Plus, he honestly had no idea how Isis would react to seeing him again. She must be disappointed in him for being exiled. No doubt she had already given him up for dead. Although … her Necklace was supposed to reveal the future to her. Perhaps she had seen more than he gave her credit for.

That thought frightened him even more than most.

Marik closed his eyes and nestled closer to Bakura's chest. The thief's heartbeat was slow and calming, his breathing even, though Marik knew that he was not truly asleep. The Thief King hardly ever seemed to sleep. He was coiled as tight as a spring, ready to jump up and run at a moment's notice, but Marik found that oddly comforting.

As long as he was with the Thief King, he was safe.

 **An end to another chapter. This one was a bit dull, my apologies – I had to set up the next bit of the plot. Also, I'm tired and sick, so I'll check properly for typos tomorrow. Let me know if you catch any ^^ Thanks so much for sticking with me this far! – Jem**


	19. Chapter 19

**Woot, so there is more plot in this chapter. I think things should get interesting. It's also suuuuuuper long – seriously, it's a mammoth of a chapter xD Thanks muchly to everyone reading this, I really appreciate it! – Jem**

 **Warnings for this chapter: not a lot, just lots of plot, and slight descriptions of fighting/wounds**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are not mine, they are Kazuki Takahashi's wonderful creations**

The next day dawned to find the thieves once again on the move.

Marik was, as always, riding with the Thief King. The large black stallion seemed excited to be moving again, his long muscles rippling and stretching as he bounded across the desert, sand flying up either side of his hooves. Marik was more used to riding now, and he found it much easier to travel.

Of course, Bakura's warm presence behind him made things a lot more bearable, too.

They had been riding for days until Bakura deemed them close enough to the Palace to make a safe camp. They were forced to move slowly, too, in order to avoid all the villages and various settlements between themselves and the Palace – they couldn't afford to be seen, for fear of word getting back to the Palace, especially not after the guards had been seen roaming so far out into the desert. Bakura was meticulously careful, only allowing them to ride when it was absolutely safe.

Marik let out a loud sigh of relief when they finally dismounted close enough to the Palace to make a permanent camp. He stretched tall into the air, his hands high above his head so that his back clicked, and he gave a low hum of satisfaction.

A loud snort sounded from Seti, his pale eyes laughing at Marik from his tall, whip-thin frame. "Aw, still can't cope with riding, tombkeeper?"

Marik glared at him. "I can cope just fine, thanks."

"Pff, you've got a mouth on you," Seti shook his head, another low chuckle rippling through him.

Marik smirked a little. "I thought you'd have realised that by now."

"More's the pity."

Menes approached with a slightly raised brow, leaning heavily on Ibebi for support until he was safely seated by the fire. He glanced between Marik and Seti with a smile. "Are you two arguing already?"

"He started it," Marik responded, sticking his tongue out at Seti.

Seti snorted, reaching over to cuff Marik around the back of his head.

At just that moment, Bakura approached again, and he sent Seti a mild glare. Seti looked up, saw him, and backed away from Marik with a jaunty grin plastered across his face. Bakura simply shook his head, reached out, and tugged Marik possessively back against his chest.

Marik released a surprised squawk.

"You _do_ make such interesting noises," Bakura chuckled lowly.

Marik simply glared at him.

…

Thut had managed to go hunting, so that night was the first time they ate meat in several weeks. Bakura was especially cheered by this – he tore into the meat with savage ferocity that sent ripples shivering down Marik's spine. He avoided looking directly at Bakura, instead continuing to eat his own simple vegetable broth.

Bakura's grey eyes twinkled at him. "Do you have delicate taste, Marik?"

"What do you think?" Marik wrinkled his nose at the sight of the meat. "That looks disgusting."

Bakura simply chuckled, tearing another deep chunk of meat off the bone.

Marik rolled his eyes. "You eat like an animal."

"I will take that as a compliment."

"Why does that not surprise me," Marik muttered, earning himself a chuckle. He merely grinned at Bakura in response.

Once they were finished eating, Bakura outlined the plan for the morning, drawing the other thieves close around him as he spoke low and eager through the shifting desert night. The sky opened up cloudless above them, the stars twinkling like pinpricks in a canvas in the deep dark of the new moon.

"Anen, you're leading the diversion mission," Bakura commanded. "The others are to follow you as if your word was mine. I want you to cause some kind of commotion in the markets – nothing too big, just enough to draw out the guards. Priests, too, if you can manage it."

"Shouldn't be too difficult," Seti grinned, laughter lines lifting at the corners of his mouth.

Thut gave his high, girlish giggle. "I'm sure Priest Seto will want some more thieves to try."

Marik started, a little surprised at the mention of Seto's name. He supposed there was no reason to be surprised, though – Seto must be fairly well known by the thieves. He couldn't help but smirk at wondering how Seto would look if he knew he incited laughter rather than fear in this most notorious criminal gang, though.

Bakura seemed to catch his expression, a twinkle in his dancing grey eyes, before he returned to the plan at hand. "You're to go to the markets as soon as dawn breaks. Marik and I will wait outside the city until the priests have been drawn out. Then, we'll head straight for the Palace. Whatever you do, make sure you're safely out and back at camp before the gates close at sundown – we will meet you back here."

Ibebi nodded, Thut grunted, and Seti lifted a hand in mock salute. Anen merely sent Bakura a small smile. Only Menes remained looking a little disheartened, as he leaned against the fire with a hand pressed against his chest. "And I must remain here, I suppose?"

"Yes," Bakura grunted shortly.

Menes sighed, but didn't press the issue.

As the night drew on, the thieves soon began to set up their tents, retreating into the darkness for the remainder of the night. Menes was about to retire, under Ibebi's watchful gaze, when his dark eyes suddenly lit up in memory. Without a word, he spun to his grey mare, digging around in his pack. When he re-emerged, it was with a newly-woven tent clutched between his fingers.

Menes limped over to Bakura with a smile on his thin lips, his light brown hair once again pulled neatly back into its low ponytail. "I forgot to say – I finished weaving your new tent, Thief King."

Bakura lifted a brow. He extended a hand, and Menes dropped the material carefully into his grip.

Bakura inspected it closely for a moment before his lazy smirk stretched across his lips again. "Good. This is penance enough for breaking the last one, Menes."

Menes grinned a little ruefully. He turned his dark gaze on Marik – the only other person not currently in a tent – and lifted an apologetic shoulder. "I would have made you one, too…"

"Oh, don't worry," Bakura practically purred as he slung one arm over Marik's shoulder, "That won't be necessary."

Menes' brows shot up.

Marik's cheeks coloured a little, and he twisted to send Bakura a deep glare. "Do you have to be so crass?"

"I can be much cruder than this, I assure you."

"Don't I know it," Marik hissed.

Menes glanced between them once more before a small smile lifted his lips. "Well – I admit, I suspected as much."

Bakura sent him a mild stare. "Excuse me?"

"Well, with the way you were always looking at each other … and … teasing…" Menes trailed off, scratching the back of his neck with one embarrassed hand when he felt Bakura's murderous eyes on him. "Ah … I think I'd just better go to bed."

"That might be for the best," Marik advised with a grin at Bakura's glaring grey gaze.

Menes disappeared without a further word.

Marik burst into a small chortle of laughter as soon as Menes was out of earshot. He turned to face Bakura, his violet eyes bright with amusement as he teased lightly, "Well. Seems like you were _looking at me_ before, huh?"

Bakura shoved him lightly, growling, "Don't push your luck, little tombkeeper."

"Don't call me that," Marik responded automatically, although his tone was still light.

Bakura merely made a face at him. He got to his feet, red cloak flaring around him as he started to set up the newly-woven tent. It was as simple as any of the others, but Menes had woven a slight decoration around its edging, perhaps to mark it out as the Thief King's. Marik fingered it, his eyes faraway. It reminded him a little of the weaving Isis used to do, when they were young children living in the Palace. Although, she hadn't been that young really – she was seven years his senior, after all.

As soon as the tent was up, Bakura grasped Marik's wrist and drew him inside quickly. There was a small mat lined up against one edge, and not much else, but it was pleasant to be enclosed in a little corner of warmth rather than left out to the elements. They undressed quickly, curling up together under a blanket.

As Marik nestled his head against Bakura's chest, he murmured, "So you're honestly going to send me to my sister tomorrow?"

"That's what this has all been about," Bakura confirmed with a nod of his head.

Marik gave a low, raspy chuckle. It was honestly strange that he could well be seeing her again, after six years apart, and finally able to have a conversation with her that didn't involve Marik being in chains. That was, if he even made it into the Palace without being caught – Seto would skin him alive if he got even so much of a _hint_ that Marik was back.

"Incidentally," Bakura murmured into Marik's ear, "Your sister no longer sleeps alone."

Marik's brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Well, there was certainly evidence enough of another in her bedchamber."

Marik tilted his face up to meet Bakura's gaze, one brow lifted in mild shock. "You were in her _bedchamber_?"

Bakura grinned at him. "Jealous, Marik?"

Marik shoved him, glaring.

"You have no need to be," Bakura chuckled lowly, threading his fingers through Marik's hair. "As attractive as her black hair is, it's nothing to your blond."

Marik had to stop himself from physically wriggling at that compliment. Even if it did prove that Bakura had indeed seen his sister. That thought was just simply odd – as if two entirely different worlds were colliding.

"So?" Marik pressed after a moment. "Who is it that shares my sister's bed?"

Bakura gave another low chuckle. "I don't think you're going to like it very much."

"I don't think she'd like it very much to know I'm fucking the Thief King, either," Marik pointed out breezily.

Bakura outright laughed at that. "You'd better pray she never finds out."

"You don't want me to tell her, then?"

"Gods, no," Bakura shook his head, grinning. "Keep my name _out_ of the discussions."

"Then how am I supposed to explain my presence to her?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Bakura shrugged easily, his lazy smirk back at his lips.

Marik resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't press the issue any further, though, instead returning to the matter at hand. "So? Who is this mysterious stranger that shares my sister's favour?"

Bakura sent him a mild, contemplative glance.

Marik arched a brow, feeling worry start to stir in his gut for the longer Bakura held his silence. Eventually, Bakura answered, and his grey gaze was glittering. "Well. There were lots of white robes around the chamber – male, not female. And the Millennium Rod was sitting on her cabinet."

Marik's brows shot up. His violet eyes widened. "Oh _hell_ no. Seto?!"

Bakura smirked. "The evidence all pointed his way."

Marik swore loudly.

"I said you wouldn't like it," Bakura chuckled.

"Too right." Marik's nose wrinkled. "How could she possibly sack up with that bastard?"

Bakura's grey gaze was still dancing. "I'm sure she'd say the same about you and me."

"Yeah, but seriously, he's the main reason I got exiled," Marik clicked his tongue. "Though I think he'd have sentenced me to death on the spot if he could."

Bakura's arms tightened around Marik at that, and his expression darkened into a thunderclap. Marik couldn't help but smile a little. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had been left to fight for his life in the desert – then, he would have been horrified to hear that in a matter of months he would be sharing the Thief King's bed. Now, however, there was nothing that made Marik happier.

They soon drifted into an easy sleep, catching what they could before the morning.

…

The next day found Marik sitting with Bakura on his majestic black stallion, hiding outside the gates to one of the cities as they waited for Anen and the other thieves to cause a diversion. The sun was just peeping over the horizon, dawn only just having broken. The air was still cool with the night, only just beginning to warm up to the sweltering temperatures usually felt out in the desert.

Marik shifted impatiently. A bundle of nerves jumped around in his stomach, mixing with anticipation and fear to create a strange mix bursting through his veins. He wriggled, glaring into the city. "Gods, how long are they going to take?"

"Stop being so impatient," Bakura chuckled.

"Well, sorry that I'm not exactly relishing this," Marik spat over his shoulder.

Bakura leaned forward with another low chuckle, winding his arms sinuously around Marik's waist. He drew Marik back and nosed at his shoulder. "Calm down."

"Easy for you to say!"

"It really isn't difficult." Bakura sounded amused, "And you'll have to be more relaxed when we're in the Palace."

Marik hissed. "I don't quite see how you want me to achieve that."

"Just do as I taught you, and stay close to me." Bakura tightened his grip around Marik and nuzzled him, fingers gently stoking against his stomach.

Marik, despite himself, relaxed. He lifted his face up to the sky, taking in the expanse of deep blue, scudded across with a few clouds and pierced by that endlessly glowing bright yellow sun. Unbidden, a smile rose to his lips. He still wondered at the sight of the sky, silently allowing himself to feel relief that he was able to look upon it again. His life in the darkness of the tomb felt an age ago. He couldn't be happier to be living above the ground, under the view of the sky, with the Thief King by his side.

Suddenly, a commotion rose up from somewhere deep within the city. Bakura made a low, triumphant noise in the back of his throat and leapt down quickly from the horse, lifting a hand to aid Marik back down to the ground too. He didn't release Marik's arm, instead beginning to lead him over to the gate. "That was the diversion. Let's go."

Marik nodded. He kept easy pace by Bakura's side, trying to ignore the constant wriggling of his innards and focusing instead on the task at hand. To see Isis, he knew he would need a clear head.

Bakura paused just before they reached the gate. There were, of course, guards posted there, watching everyone who entered and left the city, occasionally pulling people aside to check on their belongings or question their motives. There was a steady stream of people moving in and out of the city, which would hopefully make it easier for Marik and Bakura to sneak in unnoticed.

Bakura tugged Marik close, leaning in to breathe into his ear, "Remember, do not address me by name or title here."

Marik nodded once to show he had heard, his heart in his mouth.

Bakura paused for a moment longer to tug Marik's purple hood up over his head, hiding his glistening blond hair. He did the same for himself, then grasped Marik's arm again and led him towards the city.

As they joined the thronging crowds, Marik had to work hard to keep his expression calm. He could feel his blood pounding through his body, his heart aching against his ribcage, and he was thankful for Bakura's hand in his, keeping him calm.

The guards, of course, stopped them.

"You," One hand shot out to grab Bakura's shoulder, halting them in their tracks. "What is your business in the city?"

"Ah, just here to see my sister," Bakura answered in a long drawl that sounded nothing like his usual, amused tone. Marik had to stare at him to make sure it still was the Thief King under that beige hood.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "And your companion?"

"A cousin of mine," Bakura hummed with a sidelong glance at Marik, "Here to meet her for the first time. Ah, beautiful, she is, like the morning sun on the sand…"

"Alright," the guard snorted, and slowly let Bakura go. "On your way, then."

Bakura drawled out a thanks, then gripped Marik's hand to lead him quickly on through the crowds again.

Marik waited until they were out of earshot to send Bakura an incredulous stare. "The hell?"

"I got us in, didn't I?" Bakura answered smoothly, his voice back to its usual dark tone.

Marik glared at him. "Some warning would have been nice."

"You worry far too much," Bakura chuckled. "I told you, I've done this many times before."

Marik merely shook his head, prepared to say more, but then the crowds opened out before them and they were in the city. He glanced around him with a slight shiver, recognising this place far too well – these were the very gates from which he had been exiled all those months ago. It felt like another lifetime now, and he had never thought he would be entering them again. A low ripple shivered down his spine at the familiar scents and sounds that surrounded him.

"Come on," Bakura muttered low in his ear, a hand at his elbow. "Time to head for the Palace."

…

"This way, men!"

Anen's voice sounded clearly through the marketplace as he sat astride his dappled mare, spear in one hand. He had it gracefully pointed towards a guard, who was advancing on him with malice in his eyes and an axe in his grip, a shield hanging down from his saddle. His horse was fiery with rage and fresh from the Palace, pawing at the ground. The crowds ran screaming around them.

"Got ya, Anen!" Seti called from his place on the other side of the square. He had a curved blade in one hand and a sword in the other, and was leading three of the guards in a merry dance between the market stalls. Thut and Ibebi were working together not far away, Thut distracting the men as Ibebi made quick work of taking them out with his bow.

Anen nodded, a grim smile at his lips as he drove his heels into the horse's flanks. He twisted, leading the mare through the screaming crowds of people and over towards the next square. He could hear the shouts of the guards behind them, and heavy hoof-falls as they kept following the thieves. So far, the distraction was going exactly to plan; there were already many guards injured or dead, and soon, they would need reinforcements.

Sure enough, as soon as Anen got into the next market square, he spun again and threw his spear with a careful aim to take out one of the other guards. He fell screaming to the ground. Anen moved with practised ease to scoop the spear out of his bleeding body and span to face the rest of the guards, realising with a satisfied grin that there were only four left.

The general seemed to realise this at about the same time. His face paled slightly as he met Anen's cruel grin, and he quickly gestured to one of his men. "Go to the Palace! Reinforcements, now!"

Anen grinned, watching as the guard sped his horse around and lurched away through the city's streets. Perfect.

He dove back into the melee with a grin at his lips. The Thief King would be pleased.

…

Marik felt his mouth go dry when he saw the familiar walls of the Palace stretching up in front of him. They gleamed in the sunshine, glistening out with all the promise of richness and gold that their famous grounds and corridors would hold. It struck him with a thousand memories of his childhood, from all the hundreds of times he had raced along these passages, calling and crying and screeching and laughing, in pursuit of a guard or a cat as his sister and father watched him with smiles…

It felt so long ago now.

Marik hardened his heart to those memories, instead focusing on the last time he had been here, when he was dragged through these corridors in chains. They had cast him out as if he was nothing, exiled him like any common criminal. That's all he was to them now. Marik forced himself to remember that as he followed Bakura around the walls, hardening his heart to them. They were all far away from him now.

"Here," Bakura hissed into his ear when they reached a small opening in the Palace walls. Marik recognised it – it was the entrance to a little garden outside the Priests' quarters, on the West side of the Palace. Guards were less frequent here, especially in the daytime – at night, the place would be swarming with people.

"Isis' bedchamber is the third from the left," Bakura breathed, melting in the shadows against the wall. "I will go first, to make sure it is empty. Then I'll come back for you."

Marik gripped his elbow, holding him in place. "Be safe."

"Always." Bakura's ghostly chuckle echoed back to him as the thief disappeared around a corner. Marik pressed his back against the wall and took to examining every inch of the narrow alley they were in – he knew that neither of them could afford capture, especially not now, not when they were this close to the Palace. His heart thudded away in his chest and he waited impatiently, on edge until Bakura swiftly returned to him.

"She's in there," he confirmed in his deep, low voice. "So was Seto, but he's just left. Looks like they had a late morning."

Marik screwed his face up. "Ugh. I don't even want to think about him with her like … that."

Bakura merely smirked lazily at him. He melted back against the shadows of the wall, gesturing around the corner. "She's all yours now, _Ishtar_."

Marik jerked at the name, sending Bakura a glare. However, he knew Bakura was right, and this was the perfect opportunity to see his sister, whilst she was alone in her chambers. He couldn't help but feel the cold fingers of fear wrap around his heart, though he ignored them as best he could.

"Go on," Bakura murmured, his grey eyes glinting, "I will be listening from here."

With one final, disparaging look to Bakura, Marik nodded and moved around the wall.

The Palace garden was just as he remembered it. He spared no glance for the flowers or plants, however, instead making straight for the window that Bakura had said led to his sister's chambers. Marik crouched outside it and peered in, breathing in, and immediately the familiar scents of spice and honey hit him.

His sister. She was in there.

With his heart pounding, Marik peered into the chamber and saw a figure with long black hair sitting at a dressing table, her back to him. She was wearing the long white robes of a priestess, and gold bands adorned her wrists and ankles. Blue eyes were reflected in a mirror.

Blue eyes that shifted to look straight at him.

Marik felt his heart stop.

Isis stared at him for another, uncomprehending second, before she was up and out of her seat and spinning to face him, her face a perfect expression of shock. She staggered back for a moment, one hand gripping so tight to the back of her chair that her knuckles turned white. _"…Marik…?!"_

Marik winced at the oh-so-familiar voice gasping his name. Without another moment, he slipped through the window and landed cat-like on the marble floor of her bedchamber. He straightened to face her, instantly flying to her side to place a hand over her mouth, just in case she screamed. He leaned closer, hissing into her ear – and he had got taller than her, just slightly, in the years they spent apart. "It's me, Isis. Hush."

He could feel his sister trembling. He turned his head and saw her blue eyes staring at him, shock and amazement and hope and horror all flitting across her face. Her hand lifted to grip his arm, tight, as if checking he was really there. He let her feel along his arm, fingering the fine purple material of his robes, up to his cheek, where she laid her palm.

Sending her a warning look, Marik stepped back enough to release his hand from her mouth. She staggered back the instant he was no longer holding her upright, and sank back into her chair, staring at him. " _Marik_ … how…"

"Shh," he quickly shushed her, glancing around the room. It looked plush, finely decorated, with a grand large bed and silken sheets strewn across the ground, along with several items of clothing and gold scattered about the place. Not all of them were female. Marik turned back to his sister, struggling to keep himself calm. "Don't use my name. I don't know who could be listening."

She continued to stare at him. "What are you doing here, brother?"

"What, I can't come see my sister whenever I like?" he grinned at her impishly.

Isis just shook her head. She stood up again, slowly, and approached him with a mix of worry and fear clouding her blue eyes. "I … I didn't think I would ever see you again."

"Well, you did watch me get exiled." Marik's tone was hard.

Isis, despite herself, flinched. She reached out and caught his elbows, staring him straight in the eyes. She licked her lips, and if Marik didn't know better, he would have said she looked … nervous.

"I have seen things, Marik," she stated lowly, her fingers ghosting across the gold around her throat. For the first time, Marik caught sight of the Necklace. The Eye gleamed up at him, glistening around his sister's neck, and he swallowed, knowing his task for the day.

Keeping all trace of fear from his face, Marik met Isis' eyes and arched one brow. "Oh? Like what?"

"You." Her blue eyes distanced. "Impossibly things about you."

Marik wet his lips, drawing back a step.

"I saw you exiled, before you were," she murmured. "I saw you … in the tomb, with a knife."

Marik froze. _No. She can't know. How can she possibly know?!_

"And now, I see you out in the desert," she met his eyes, and her blue gaze held far too much knowledge. "I see you out in the desert … and not alone."

Silence held for a moment before Marik tilted his chin up defiantly. "Scattered images. Nothing definite."

"It is enough to piece together a worrying picture." She advanced on him again, and to his horror, Marik found himself backing up a step. "You are treading a dangerous path, Marik – a path that will see you killed."

Marik glared at her. "I am not dead yet."

"Which is more than a miracle," she murmured, her fingers reaching out to touch him again. She held his gaze, her blue eyes filled with an unreadable emotion, and then suddenly she stepped closer and pulled him into her arms, holding him close and squeezing tight, until all the breath left his lungs.

Marik hovered for a moment, uncertain. If she knew about his past, about the true reason he had left the tomb, then why on earth was she welcoming him? Why hadn't she called the guards yet? Marik's mind became a welter of confused thoughts, but he found it hard to think past how pleasant it was to have his sister so close to him again. So, he closed his eyes, and allowed himself to breathe her in, sending a myriad of childhood memories to rise to the forefront of his mind.

Isis drew back after a long, long moment, and met his eyes again. "Why are you here, brother?"

Marik bit his inner cheek. Looking into her eyes, and then down at the Necklace, he decided it was pointless to lie to her – she clearly knew far more than he had ever suspected, and the power of the Millennium Items was not to be reckoned with. So, he answered bluntly. "I need your Necklace."

If Isis was surprised, she didn't let it show on her face. "And why do you require my Item?"

" _I_ don't," Marik muttered, "Not exactly. But … the person I work for does."

Isis' fingers drifted against the gold at her throat, her blue eyes distancing again. "Ah, yes. The man with the red cloak. The one who calls himself King of Thieves."

Marik's heart stopped.

"Did you think I didn't know?" Isis' tone was almost amused. "I have seen plenty of the life you lead now, brother, out in the desert with that band of thieves."

Marik's fists clenched by his sides. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Then why haven't you called the guards already?"

"Because you are my brother," she murmured, "And I know more than you might think."

He glared at her.

"You are on a dangerous path, Marik," Isis's tone turned heavy with warning. "There are two options in your future, but both hold their own darkness. It was reckless indeed for you to come here today."

Marik shifted, snorting under his breath. "You think I don't know that?"

"Then I ask you again," she approached, her tone harsh, "What possessed you?"

Marik was silent for a moment, taking his time before answering. "The Necklace is important."

"To the Thief King; not you."

"Don't say that name so loud!" Marik glanced hastily around the chamber again.

Isis shook her head. "Are you so entangled with him already?"

"Yes," Marik responded immediately.

"How, brother?"

"I know he's a good man," Marik murmured after a moment. "He's certainly the only one actually treating me well."

Isis flinched.

Marik sighed, reaching out to grip her arm. "Not you, sister. But that tomb was hell, and so was exile. He saved me – he unbound my chains, he fed me and clothed me. I am only alive today thanks to him."

Isis' blue eyes held him in place for several long moments as she processed that information. "I had seen as much," she admitted finally, "But I had thought I must be seeing wrong."

"You weren't." Marik's eyes narrowed. "And just how much else have you seen?"

Isis closed her eyes and bowed her head, fingering the gold at her neck again. "A great many things, and very few of them good. Danger follows you, Marik, like a black storm over your head. This path will not end happily."

"I have no other choice," Marik answered sharply.

Isis' eyes tightened for a moment. "I fear even more that you are right."

Marik swallowed. He was acutely aware that Bakura would be somewhere just outside the window, listening to every word they exchanged, and he also knew that they couldn't have long before the diversion failed and they would have to flee. He couldn't deal with such a long conversation – not yet.

"Isis," Marik stated tersely, "I don't have long. I need your Necklace."

She glared at him. "You expect me to do this Thief King's dirty work?"

"I expect you to trust me, _sister_." Marik emphasised their relationship, keeping his violet eyes trained straight on her.

Isis could only hold his gaze for a moment before her eyes dropped down to the ground. Her fingers bunched into fists in her long, white robes. "Then I will need you to be truthful with me, Marik."

Marik eyed her closely. "And what would you know, sister?"

She looked straight at him, her blue eyes so electric that he felt glued to the spot. "I want to know the truth of what happened to Father."

Marik drew in a sharp breath. Tingles rippled through his veins, flaring down his back, and he had to physically hold back a shudder. Looking into Isis' eyes, he eventually replied, "How much have you seen?"

She stared at him, her expression harsh. "You had a knife. You were standing over him. Blood, everywhere…"

Marik flinched. He closed his eyes, drawing in a careful breath, and then opened them again to look his sister directly in the face. "Then you know the truth."

Isis staggered back. She fell into the chair again, her white robes clinging to her as she stared in horror and disbelief at him. Her expression was everything Marik had feared it would be – judgemental, furious, hurt. He gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. He had never wanted to hurt his sister, or to see her sending him such a glance.

Eventually, Isis managed to speak. "Marik … _why_ …?"

"He made me go through the Initiation," Marik scraped out through clenched teeth.

Isis stopped short again. Her eyes widened even further, her tone a shocked, breathy gasp. _"What?!_ "

"I thought it had been outlawed," Marik growled.

Isis stared at him. "It has!"

"Oh, has it?" He burst into cruel laughter, span on his heel, and tugged at his robes, letting them fall down to his waist. He could hear her shocked gasp when her eyes fell upon his scarred back. He snorted. "Certainly seems _outlawed_ to me."

Silence held raggedly between them until Isis spoke again. "Turn around, brother. I don't … I can't…"

Marik understood. He supposed they would be painful to look upon. Without another word, he pulled his robes back up and span to face her again, his eyes hard and tainted with scorn.

She looked as if a ghost had walked through her.

Marik felt his iron resolve crumble a little before that look. She was broken and hurt, lost and confused, and it hurt him to see her looking so out of control. She had always been such a strong figure in his life, so assured … she was like the mother he had never had the chance to know.

"Marik," Isis murmured after a moment, "I had no idea."

"You didn't see _this_ with your Necklace, then," Marik spoke bitterly. "I can't say I'm surprised. I can only assume the orders came from the Pharaoh himself."

Isis stared at him.

"Father had been through it, too," Marik murmured quietly. "His scars were old – years old. It must have been before we went into the tomb."

Isis drew in a trembling breath, pressing her fingers to the gold. Her expression was tainted with revulsion. "Then it is true. There is corruption here."

"Corruption?" Marik's interest was instantly piqued. "What have you seen here, sister?"

Isis looked at him, clearly deliberating over her reply, when there was a sudden commotion from the corridor outside. Footsteps echoed loudly through the chamber, accompanied by shouts and cries in several voices. One voice in particular was horrifyingly familiar to Marik's ears.

Seto.

Isis paled considerably. She mouthed at her brother, "Is the Thief King here?"

Heart in his mouth, Marik nodded, and pointed over to the window.

Without a word, Isis wheeled, crossing the room. She poked her head out of the window, glancing left and right, but she could see nothing – unsurprisingly, considering who she was looking for. Quietly, she hissed, "Thief King, my brother and you are in grave danger. Come here – I will hide you until it is safe."

There was silence, apart from the chaos outside growing closer. Seto's voice sounded far too close to the door. "Tell the Pharaoh I will be a moment!"

Marik shook. He ran to Isis side and leaned out of the window, hissing, "Bakura, she's right! Get in here now!"

Isis sent him a surprised look.

For a long, agonised moment, there was still no movement.

Then, a ghostly shadow leapt as fast as silver into the room, grasping Marik's arm tight as a low, dangerous voice growled into his ear, "I told you _not_ to mention me."

Marik span to see Bakura's familiar scarred face with an odd sense of relief washing through his veins. "I hardly had a choice," he hissed back, "She already knew."

"Indeed she did." Bakura lifted his head to send Isis a dangerous stare.

She looked fairly calm, considering the most wanted man in Egypt had just leapt into her bedchamber. At the continuing noise from outside, Isis crossed the room and opened a door, revealing stacks of clothes piled into a tiny space. She gestured to it. "In here, until I can get rid of him, and then I will set you free."

Bakura levelled a glare at her. "I can assume you are aware of what will happen if you don't?"

She merely jerked her head in a nod.

Bakura kept his fingers tight around Marik's arm as they moved into the tiny cupboard, plunged into darkness the instant Isis shut the door on them. Marik could feel Bakura's heart racing close to his, feel his warm hand tight around Marik's elbow as they listened to the goings-on in the room.

They had disappeared not a moment too soon. Isis barely had time to straighten her robes when the door was flying open and Priest Seto himself strode in, his voice taught and firm with anger. "Isis. Have you not heard the commotion?"

"I have been in here," she answered, and Marik was proud when there wasn't even a tremor in her voice. "What's been going on?"

"The Thief King's men have attacked the markets." Seto's tone was cursory. "We must go to judge them, and quickly, before they escape our grasp again."

"Are you sure it is them?"

"Their descriptions match perfectly. Hurry – we will need your Necklace for this."

Isis pulled back, shaking her head. "Is the Thief King himself with them?"

Seto frowned. "Not yet, but where they are, he is never far behind."

"True. But if he is not yet present, then it would be better to apprehend them and bring them here, to lure him. I doubt he would leave his men to die."

"You place a lot of trust in his honour."

"Perhaps. His movements so far prove him to be protective of his men, at least, and he would know that if we hold them in the Palace then they may reveal information about him. He would not risk his identity being found."

There was silence for a moment before Seto responded. "…Perhaps you speak the truth, Priestess."

Isis inclined her head.

"In that case," Seto continued, "You would do better to stay here. We will apprehend the criminals and bring them directly here."

Isis nodded. There was another pause, and then she said, "Wait."

"Yes?"

"Leave the Rod. It would be safer here."

A rustle, then Seto responded, "Yes, you speak sense. Wait here for our return."

Another pause, followed by footsteps and the sound of the door sliding shut.

As soon as there was no more sound, Bakura wrenched the door open and strode out into the light. Marik followed after him, blinking in the sudden sunlight, and made out the form of his sister standing staring the Thief King down. He swallowed, moving between them and watching them both with wary eyes.

Isis held Bakura's gaze for a long, tense moment. "I believe I have you to thank for keeping my brother alive."

"I suppose you do, at that," Bakura answered just as calmly, though Marik recognised the burning fire throbbing behind his voice.

Isis' eyes narrowed. "And you are also seeking the Millennium Items."

Bakura's grey eyes turned sharp. He looked lean as a whip, thin and poised, and Marik didn't think he had ever seen Bakura look as dangerous as he did in that moment. He suddenly became acutely aware of the three blades Bakura always kept on his person, and his current close proximity to his sister.

Marik swallowed.

The tension in the air was thick enough to be cut through with a knife. Marik watched with a sharp gaze, looking between both their faces, until Isis finally broke the silence. "Do I have your word that you will keep him safe?"

Bakura's eyes hardened. "He would not be in danger, were it not for your precious _Pharaoh_."

Isis flinched despite herself. However, she kept calm, her expression impassive as she held the Thief King's gaze. "The Pharaoh is not so precious to me as you might think."

"Oh?" Bakura's tone was almost amused. "How so?"

"I see many things with my Item." Her fingers ghosted across the gold again, her blue eyes fixated on his face. "Many things, even concerning you."

Marik felt Bakura stiffen by his side.

"I know," she murmured, "I know why you seek the Items so."

Bakura was silent before he spat, "You know nothing, _Priestess_."

Isis simply shook her head, her expression turning sad. "I know of Kul Elna, Thief King."

At that, Bakura moved. In a flash, he was across the room, pressing Isis tight to a wall, a blade suddenly in his hand and pressing up against his throat. Marik couldn't stop himself from sending out a warning growl. "Bakura…"

Bakura ignored him. His grey eyes flashed as they pierced into Isis. "What do you know of that?"

"I see many things," she breathed, "Which is why, if you would release me, these Items will be yours."

Bakura stopped short.

Marik looked between them, completely aware that he was missing something big. He had no idea what this _Kul Elna_ thing was his sister was speaking of, but it clearly meant something to Bakura. Something big; something important. Much to his surprise, Marik felt a flash of jealousy that Isis knew something he didn't.

Eventually, after several long, tense minutes, Bakura stepped back. He kept the knife in his grip, a tall, leering threat in the corner of a room as he kept his gaze trained straight on Isis. "Hand them over, then."

Isis moved to the bed, where the Millennium Rod lay amongst the silken bedsheets. She unclasped the Necklace from her neck, closing her eyes, and turned with both Items in her hand. She held them out to Bakura, who snatched them off her almost too fast to see. He cradled them against his chest as if they were children.

Marik watched with surprise. He had seen Bakura lusting after gold before, of course – many times, in fact – but he had never seen him act like this. Bakura looked as if this treasure was the most important thing in his whole entire world.

Isis turned her gaze back to Marik again, and even without the Necklace her blue eyes still held too much knowledge. "Tread carefully, brother. There are two futures before you, but both end in death – one yours, in prison, if you are caught."

Marik swallowed. "And the other?"

"You have your freedom." Isis paused, flicking a glance to Bakura. "Both of you do. But it comes at a horribly high price."

Marik felt a rock drop to the bottom of his stomach at the warning in those words.

Bakura reached over and grasped Marik's hand, the Items somehow disappearing under his cloak. He eyed Isis with a hard grey stare. "I do not trust in such superstitious futures."

"I thought you of all people would," Isis answered simply.

Bakura merely laughed.

She sent them both a warning look. "I cannot promise to keep you safe – the guards will discover the missing Items, as will Seto. They are not fools, especially not after the Ring going missing – they will suspect the Thief King."

"I am not stupid," Bakura growled.

"Then take care."

Bakura snorted. "I _will_ have my revenge, Priestess – make no mistake about that."

Her gaze was equally hard as she glared at him. "Then you will pay the price."

"I am already quite reconciled to that." Bakura turned to the window, tugging Marik with him. "Come, Marik."

Marik walked with him, but spun at the last moment to give his sister one last hug. Her words kept echoing in his ears, no matter how much he tried to put them out of his mind.

Isis held him tight. "Be safe, brother."

"You too, sister," he murmured back before leaving her side and returning to Bakura.

Soon, there was no evidence that either of them had ever been there.

 **So yep, mammoth chapter, like I said xD I hope it was ok and it all makes sense. If not, let me know, and I shall explain further. Also, apologies for any typos, I keep uploading these too late to actually check if they're alright or not xD Thanks so much for reading this far! – Jem**


	20. Chapter 20

**Thank you so much for sticking with me so far. We're getting close to the end of this story now – and it's more than twice the length I originally anticipated xD I swear, this story just kept growing and growing until now it's just huge. So, I am forever indebted to all of you still reading and putting up with it. I hope you like this (rather short) chapter! – Jem**

 **And thank you to the guest reviewer – it makes me so happy that you think my writing is beautiful! I'm blushing xD Miss Tako and YxYY lover, thank you for your continuing words of support, I'm so happy you're reading~**

 **Warnings for this chapter: again, not very much, but there will be a lot of angst in upcoming chapters**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are Kazuki Takahashi's, not mine**

Whilst Marik and Bakura had been in the Palace, Anen, Seti, Thut, and Ibebi had been mid-diversion. Anen was still up on his dappled mare, spear in hand as he wheeled to face the guard following him. One quick slice, and he was down on the ground, bleeding and injured on the dusty floor. There were screeches and screams from the crowds, but Anen merely glared at them, which was enough to send them scattering. He smirked a little at that.

Seti soon galloped past on his left side, sword in hand, loud manic cackles escaping his lips as he led the guards a merry dance. It was simple work for Thut to move behind him, hacking at any who pursued. Ibebi remained in a distant corner of the square, an arrow nocked to his bow, his face grim and set as he aimed at any other approaching guards.

Anen took a moment to glance around. The city was still bustling – it was market day, after all – but they had made enough of a commotion to send most of the civilians running. However, there were many spectators congregating at the edges of the market squares, some watching the destruction of their livelihood with wide, shocked expressions, some glaring at the thieves with anger, some cheering them on. Anen barely spared them a glance as he cast his eyes deeper into the city. The Palace stood, tall and proud, casting a long, looming shadow over the huts and crooked streets. The late morning sun glanced off its shiny walls, brown glistening in the light. Bakura and Marik were somewhere in there.

Anen tried to tell himself he wasn't worried.

As he continued to look to the Palace, there was a slight commotion in the streets. The sound of horses' hooves echoed back to him, accompanied by the shouts and cries of men, and they were heading in this direction. Anen's eyes widened a little.

"Seti!" He cried, suddenly wheeling his horse around, "Reinforcements!"

Seti's face immediately turned grim. He shifted, making quick work of the two guards still on him, his sword turning bloody as it cut cleanly through the air. He beckoned Thut over, the three of them forming a protective ring around Ibebi, who kept his bow lifted and an arrow nocked.

"Don't do anything stupid," Anen ordered, his tone quiet but sharp. "Thief King wants us back alive."

"What the chief wants, the chief will get." Seti still sounded amused, if a little breathless.

Thut merely grunted.

As the guards approached, Anen cast them a quick glance, counting in his head. Twenty. There were only twenty, plus a person in white robes with short brown hair leading them. His gold and expensive clothes marked him out as a Priest – and a High one, at that.

Seti gave a low chuckle by his side. " _Twenty_. That's almost an insult."

"An insult you may yet be grateful for," Anen responded tersely, lifting his lean body up in his stirrups. He kept his dark eyes cool as he faced the approaching guards.

They stopped when they were on the other side of the square, save the Priest, who continued to approach until he was within speaking distance. He glanced among the four of them, and his nose was clearly upturned, his face creased with derision. "Who leads amongst you?"

"That would be me," Anen answered casually, though he kept his mare in line with Seti and Thut.

The Priest sent him a faintly disparaging look. "I did not know the Thief King worked with old men."

Anen shrugged the insult off as easily as silk. "The Thief King is not here."

"But no doubt he is not far behind you."

Anen felt a shot of relief pulse through him at that. Bakura had not been discovered, then, which surely meant that Marik was safe too. He had a feeling that Bakura would not let harm befall the tombkeeper. Their plan was working – now they just had to keep these guards clear of the Palace for as long as possible without getting caught.

The Priest pinned Anen with a cold stare. "What is your business here?"

"Oh, you know," Anen answered casually in a tone to rival the Thief King's lazy drawl, "A bit of pillaging, a bit of stealing. Just your average market day, really."

A rustle went through the crowds, and the guards' hands all reached for their weapons. He heard Seti give a low chortle by his side.

The Priest's gaze fell flat. "You will regret those words." He lifted a hand to hold the guards still, his gaze still fixed intently on Anen. "What are your names?"

"Well, we'd be foolish to tell you that," Anen answered, his tone still civil.

"Are you defying a High Priest?"

"Well, I'm defying _you_ ," Anen smirked, "So if that's what you are, then yes, looks like I am."

A low hiss escaped the Priest's lips. "Do you know who I am?"

Anen shrugged. "Not a clue."

"I will not hear such insolence as this!" The Priest spread his fingers, and the guards fanned out around him, forming an imposing two-line threat to corner Anen and the others in their little space of the market square. "I am High Priest Seto, Councillor to the great Pharaoh Atem himself!"

Anen arched a brow, appearing distinctly unruffled. "Oh, should I have heard of you?" Inwardly, though, he was slightly surprised. Seto was well-known in the criminal community – mostly down to his habit of sealing souls.

Priest Seto glared at him. "You will not forget me after today." With that, he lowered his hand, and the guards advanced.

The fight was messy and quick. The guards outnumbered the thieves five-to-one, but the thieves were practised fighters, and they worked together as smoothly as the wheels that turned a cart. Ibebi's arrow made quick work of the front line of guards, and Thut, Seti, and Anen worked fast, slashing and cutting to keep away any threat to Ibebi.

High Priest Seto seemed to realise he was outmatched as the fight began turning the thieves' way. His eyes narrowed and he sent Anen a tight glare, fists clenching around the reins of his horse.

Anen merely grinned at him, then burst into laughter when Seto turned and rode away from the scene with a low hiss. No doubt he was riding back to hide at the Palace.

"We've done all we can here," Anen called to the others, wheeling his mare around to leave the square.

"Leaving already?" Seti sounded disappointed, chopping easily at a guard.

Thut slid his axe into his saddle as he rode to join Anen. "Can't say I'm upset."

"Me neither," Ibebi sniffed, falling into place beside them as they rode out of the square and back towards the exit of the city. A few more guards tried to stop them, but it was easy for Ibebi's bow to take them out. He spoke between shots. "I need to check on Menes."

"We should be back with him shortly." Anen twisted to check that Seti was following them, then kicked his heels into his mare's flanks and rode sharply towards the city gates. He sent one last glance to the Palace as they left, praying that they had given Marik and Bakura enough time.

They exited the city, the desert stretching out before them once again, and they rode hard for the camp. There was nothing more they could do.

…

The journey back to camp was a silent one for Marik and Bakura.

Marik could feel tension in his muscles; tension that refused to leave him until they were safely out of the city and away from the dangers of the Palace. It had frightened him more than he first realised to hear Seto's voice so close, and to know how close they were to getting captured. He was in no ignorance of exactly what punishment they would be given, should they ever be caught. Not even Isis could save them were that ever to happen.

Marik shifted when he thought of his sister. There were still many things she had said that he did not understand, and he had to admit, he had been surprised by how readily she had handed over the Items – both hers and Priest Seto's. He wondered what story she would tell when they were found to be missing. He just hoped that she wouldn't be in too much trouble – after all, her place on the Council should pretty much guarantee her safety.

Bakura remained a tall, loping shadow by Marik's side. His face was set and furious, his body tense, and Marik doubted that he had seen Bakura this angry, except perhaps save from when he found out Marik's surname. Marik kept pace by his side. He was itching with curiosity, wanting to know what on earth _Kul Elna_ was and why it had affected Bakura so much, but he also knew that the middle of the city was not the right place to ask.

They got through the city gates without problem. Bakura mounted his black stallion with stiff movements, pulling Marik up in front of him, and then they were galloping away across the desert again, sand flying out behind them. Once they were a reasonable distance away, Bakura slowed the horse to a walk, giving him a chance to rest as they made their way on towards the camp.

Then, and only then, did Marik dare to speak.

"What was my sister talking to you about?"

Bakura was silent for a long moment, long enough for Marik to wonder whether he had heard. Then, he gave a low chuckle. "I should have known your curiosity wouldn't take long."

"Seriously, though," Marik twisted to try and get a look at Bakura's face, but Bakura's arms had him trapped pretty much facing forward. "What's _Kul Elna_?"

Bakura instantly tensed. His fingers dug into the reins tighter, eliciting a startled whinny from his horse, until Bakura remembered himself and relaxed his grip. His tone was low and furious when he answered. "Don't ask me about that, Marik."

"But why…?"

"I said, _don't_."

Marik chewed his inner cheek, but kept silent. He could practically feel the anger pouring out of Bakura, at least enough to know that he wouldn't be talking about this anytime soon. Still, Marik felt curiosity itch away inside his veins.

"I thought you said no more secrets," he tried again without any true hope of success.

Bakura gave a low, raspy chuckle. "I said _you_ were to keep no more secrets."

"Well that hardly seems fair."

"Tough shit, Ishtar." Bakura leaned closer again, his arms enclosing Marik safely on the proud black stallion's back. "Why did you tell your sister so much?"

Marik snorted. "She already knew most of it."

"I distinctly remember telling you to keep my name out of it."

"She already knew about you," Marik pointed out, "That isn't my fault."

"You still shouldn't have told her."

"You got the Items, didn't you?"

Bakura growled in the back of his throat. He laid his chin on Marik's shoulder, breath tickling his ear. "Luckily for you, yes."

Marik grinned despite himself. He leaned back into Bakura's touch, glancing around at the desert stretching out in all directions. The city was merely a dot on the horizon by now; soon, it would be out of sight completely. The heat beat down on them from all directions, completely untethered.

"What do you suppose Isis meant about the future?" Marik asked after a time.

Bakura grunted. "I don't pay much attention to predictions."

"But she saw with the Necklace," Marik argued.

"Doesn't mean she will necessarily be correct."

Marik pursed his lips, thinking that over. No matter how hard he tried, Isis' words would not be forgotten. They swirled around in his skull, sitting damply over him, making his heart heavy. He coughed once. "Still, she seemed pretty certain. Two futures…"

"You shouldn't listen to superstitions, Marik."

"You can talk," Marik scoffed, "With all the Eyes you have?"

Bakura growled low in his throat. "I fail to see what you mean."

"They're a symbol for protection," Marik shook his head, "That's more superstitious than anything I've done."

Bakura paused for a moment before tightening his grip around Marik, drawing him back into his chest. "I suppose you may have a point."

"Perhaps." Marik grinned. "You should listen to me more."

"Don't push your luck, tombkeeper," Bakura growled low into his ear, but now Marik could hear amusement in his tone.

Marik just laughed.

…

When Marik and Bakura finally made it back to camp, it was to find the other thieves already returned. Menes was sitting slumped by the fire, looking a little better for the rest, although still pale and sickly. Ibebi was hovering over him like a mother hen, mixing up a new poultice whilst simultaneously pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.

Menes waved him away with a smile. "I feel fine."

"You don't look fine," Ibebi warned. "The last thing we need is your fever returning."

Menes sighed, but sat back and allowed Ibebi to administer to him. His face instantly brightened when he saw Bakura's black stallion approaching, and he waved, pushing his glasses up his nose with his other hand. "Thief King!"

All the thieves instantly turned to see their leader trotting across the sand, Marik seated in front of him. A round of cheers sounded. Seti tipped them a mock-salute, his pale eyes gleaming to match his wide grin. "Thought something had happened to you, Chief."

"I don't go down so easily," Bakura chuckled, vaulting off the horse. He lifted a hand to help Marik, but Marik just glared at him and jumped down on his own. Bakura grinned at him.

"How did it go?" Anen asked, peering intently at Bakura.

Bakura looked back with just as much intensity, his grey eyes turning stern as he approached the fire. "As well as can be expected. How did your diversion last?"

Seti snickered loudly. "Better than expected."

"Oh?" Bakura arched a brow.

"Priest Seto decided to come and give us a show," Thut rumbled. "He tried to capture us, but he only brought twenty guards with him." Snorts of laughter echoed around the camp, loudest from Seti. Amusement twinkled in all their eyes, at least until Menes laughed too loud and descended into a round of coughing. Ibebi crouched beside him, sitting him forward and rubbing his back soothingly until Menes caught his breath again with a gasp.

Marik frowned a little as he settled on the sand beside Bakura. "Forgive my ignorance, but twenty guards is quite a lot between four of you."

"Tombkeeper!" Seti pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, though his pale eyes were still laughing as he directed a grin towards Marik. "How you wound us."

Thut's low, rumbling voice growled, "And underestimate us, too."

Marik frowned, glancing between Anen, Seti, Thut, and Ibebi. Although they looked like hardened warriors, he knew first-hand the strength of the Palace guards, and it was a little surprising to hear that they claimed to have taken down twenty between just the four of them.

Bakura was sending him an amused glance. "After all this time, I thought you would have stopped underestimating us."

"Sometimes I forget how dangerous you all are," Marik muttered.

Seti chuckled at that, his pale eyes bright with amusement. "That could be your first mistake."

Marik shrugged a little, a wicked smirk twitching his lips. "Well, seeing you all acting so nice around the camp, your reputation has kind of died in my mind."

Dangerous growls echoed around the camp, aside from Anen, who threw his head back and laughed. "The tombkeeper has a point, you know."

Marik grinned at him.

They had a simple meal that night, none of them having time to go out hunting, so they were left with simple vegetable broth. Bakura was less than pleased, but Marik was quite happy really. His stomach was much more content with the simple food than when he had to eat almost-raw meat.

Once they were done eating, Bakura kicked back in the sand, leaning back on his elbows as he glanced around his men. "Tomorrow, we break camp again. We need to get away from the city."

"How come?" Seti asked, gnawing on a stick of celery.

Bakura cast a sideways glance at Marik. "The guards may well be looking for us."

A low whistle rang through the camp, accompanied by a slight chortle from Seti. Anen looked curious. "What exactly were you doing?"

"You know me better than to ask that, Anen," Bakura reprimanded, his tone slightly amused. He leaned his head back, glancing up at the sky as the sun dipped towards the horizon, painting the sky a deep blue. The first stars were just winking out.

Anen sighed.

"Seti, you'll be on the left, and Thut the right," Bakura continued, "With Anen at the rear. Menes, I want you directly on my right. Can't risk you getting injured again."

"Thanks, Thief King," Menes smiled a little, although his face looked drawn. Exhaustion was weighing heavily on his limbs and he had one hand pressed to the wound on his chest.

Bakura sent him a measuring glance. "Get in a tent now."

Menes waved him away tiredly. "I'm fine…"

"Menes, I don't take kindly to people who disobey me." Bakura glowered, continuing to stare at him with his deep grey eyes. Menes could only last under that look for another moment before he shifted, obediently heading into one of the already-set-up tents.

Bakura waited until he was definitely gone before he turned back to the others, talking in a low voice. "We'll have to move faster than I would like. Ideally, I'd leave tonight, but it would be foolish with Menes in this state."

"It would," Ibebi cut in frostily, glaring at Bakura, "And he won't be able to keep up too demanding a pace."

Bakura blew out a sigh, fixing his gaze on Ibebi. "I am well aware. We'll go as fast as he can stand."

Ibebi nodded, but he looked less than pleased.

Bakura sighed, glancing out at the desert. "I've half-a-mind to go back to the caves, but we can't risk the guards finding out about them. I think we should travel west, towards the border – the guards won't dare go out that far."

"They wouldn't survive if they tried," Seti chortled. It seemed even such a serious conversation could do nothing to dampen his mood.

Bakura grinned at him, all sharp teeth and lips. "True."

After a few more murmured conversations, the sun dipped too low for staying out to be comfortable, and so all the thieves began to slip back into their tents. Bakura pulled Marik towards his tent, leading him inside, and they stripped and settled down under the blanket.

Marik faced Bakura in the flickering lamplight, pursing his lips. "How likely is it that the guards will follow us?"

"More than I would like," Bakura growled, a sardonic twist to his lips, "Thanks to your darling sister."

"She gave you two Items," Marik glared.

"Yes, and now she's sending the guards after us."

"You can hardly blame her," Marik mumbled, his face pressing into Bakura's chest, "She did see the Thief King in her chamber, after all."

Bakura, despite himself, felt a low chuckle rumble through his chest. He wrapped an arm around Marik's shoulders, nuzzling into his hair. "She didn't seem very scared of me."

"You just don't know Isis very well," Marik disagreed.

"Oh?"

"She wouldn't have allowed _anyone_ else to order her around like you did."

Bakura chuckled again, this time the sound low and dangerous. "She's lucky she had enough sense to listen to me."

"I have a sensible family."

Silence settled between them again, and Marik shifted a little under the blanket, content to listen to the Thief King's breathing settle down. Despite his slow heartbeat and apparent rest, Marik knew that he would not be fully asleep – he rarely, if ever, was. So, Marik tilted his head up and examined his face closely, tracing the scar on his cheek, the smooth lids of his eyes.

Bakura spoke without opening his eyes. "Go to sleep, Marik."

Marik started, but then grinned, laying his head on Bakura's chest. "Perhaps."

"I'm serious." Bakura opened one grey eye to pin him with a stare. "We have a hard day's riding ahead."

"I know." Marik's expression shifted into one of seriousness. "But I need to ask you something."

Bakura's face turned a little wary.

"Isis mentioned _Kul Elna_ ," he started, "And you started doing whatever she said."

Bakura glared at him.

"There must be a reason for that," Marik mused, racking his brains, "But I don't know what it could be. I've never heard of _Kul Elna_ , whatever it is…"

"Stop talking about it," Bakura interrupted abruptly.

Marik shifted to face him, his eyes hard. "Why?"

Bakura's only answer was to level a glare at him. His grey eyes were burning, his scarred face crinkling until he looked far older than his years, and his grip tightened around Marik's shoulders.

Marik pursed his lips. "I'm not keeping anything more from you."

"You did for long enough," Bakura growled.

Marik glared at him. "Still, I know nothing about who you are."

"You have my…"

"Yes, I know your name," Marik interrupted harshly, "But nothing else. Where are you from? Who were your family? Why do you live the life of a thief?"

Bakura fixed him with a hard stare, but kept his silence.

"Why do you hate the Palace so much?" Marik pressed on regardless. He pressed his face back into Bakura's chest with a low huff. "I can only guess that you have some kind of vendetta against the Pharaoh, or the Priests, or something, but only the Gods know what…"

"Are you quite finished?" Two warm hands touched Marik's chin, lifting his face up so that Bakura could look into his eyes again. Bakura's face was still impassive, apart from his burning grey eyes.

Marik glared at him. "I know _nothing_ about you."

Silence held between them for another long moment until Bakura heaved a long, heavy sigh. The sound was more reluctant, more weighed down with the past, than anything Marik had heard from him before. Bakura held Marik's gaze for another moment before he released his chin, fingers moving into Marik's hair instead.

"I am a thief," Bakura began slowly, "Because I lost my family when I was a child."

Marik stared at him. His heart thudded through his chest, pulse suddenly quicker, but he allowed the silence to stretch on, willing Bakura to say more.

"I wandered the desert alone, until Anen found me. As for your other questions…" Bakura drifted off again, a flash of pain creasing across his face, "I am from … a village. An inconsequential village. You've never even heard of it."

Marik swallowed.

"My family were much the same as any other family, I imagine. Mother, Father, sister. She was younger than me." Bakura's tone was even, if a little strained. "I lost them when I was seven."

"What happened to them?" Marik asked before he could stop himself.

Bakura fixed him with a stern grey stare. It was impossible to read the emotions behind his expression, but Marik could sense the tension in the air, crackling like a candle wick in flames, just waiting to be set alight.

The silence stretched on for an unbearably long moment.

Eventually, Bakura clasped his hand around Marik's shoulders and brought him back down into his chest. "Enough darkness for one night," he murmured into Marik's hair. "You need to sleep."

Marik chewed his inner cheek, but allowed Bakura to pull him down. He nipped once at Bakura's shoulder. "I will get your story out of you one day."

Bakura made no answer, but his fingers trailed a path down Marik's back, just brushing the pattern of his scars.

Marik shuddered a little in his hold. He closed his eyes, pressing himself closer, once again marvelling at how he found himself wrapped in such protective warmth. He had never dared to imagine this sort of touch, yet here it was, reserved just for him.

After another few moments, Marik murmured sleepily, "Bakura?"

"What is it now, Marik?"

"I'm sorry you lost your family."

The tent was still again, until Bakura tightened his grip around Marik. His only response was to place a kiss to Marik's forehead, before he dropped into sleep.

 **There's an end to this chapter. And I'm just going to warn you now – next chapter, there is angst, and lots of it, so be careful with proceeding if you don't like it. I plan to destroy you all slowly. Mwahaha. *evil grin***

 **…No but seriously, this story is getting near its climax. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. Oh, and there is a happy ending to this tale, once you get through all the angst. See all you brave warriors next chapter! – Jem**


	21. Chapter 21

**So like I said, angst. Much angst ahead. Proceed with caution. Many thanks to everyone still reading, and I hope you don't all hate me after this chapter. Also, sorry it's out a bit later than usual – I got distracted by going to watch the meteor shower xD - Jem**

 **Warnings: ANGST. And character death. Please don't hate me**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are not mine, they belong to Kazuki Takahashi**

Bakura roused the camp early the next day, so early that the sun had not yet risen above the horizon and only the light of the morning star was available to guide their movements. The thieves packed up the camp with a quiet efficiency. They ate a simple breakfast of spiced bread and cheese before mounting their horses.

Bakura sent Menes a concerned look as they took up their positions. His face still looked drawn, his brown hair limp in its low ponytail, but he managed a smile when he caught the Thief King's worried expression.

Bakura pursed his lips, then turned to Ibebi. "Will he be ok?"

Ibebi clicked his tongue. "I've done all I can. He knows to drink his medicine every few hours."

"Will it be enough?"

"We will have to hope so."

Bakura gave a low growl, showing his discomfort with that opinion. There was nothing more to be done now, however, so he simply vaulted up onto his black stallion behind Marik, trotting up to take his place at the front of the group. He cast another look to Menes. "Stop me the minute you feel too tired to continue."

"I'll be fine," Menes answered, but even his voice sounded shaky.

Bakura merely sent him another hard stare before pressing his heels into his stallion's sides, and then they were galloping once again.

The city kept receding behind them until it was out of sight. Only sand and desert stretched around them, dotted with the occasional village, but Bakura steered them well clear of any other civilisations, not wanting to risk getting spotted until they were safely near the western border. His body was tense behind Marik, his fingers clenched in the reins, and he was sitting much further forward in the saddle than he normally would.

Marik didn't make much conversation as they rode. He could feel in the atmosphere that teasing would not be a good idea at such a time as this, not when Bakura's worry practically sizzled through the air. Instead, he settled on thinking over what little he had learned about the Thief King's life last night. The revelation that Bakura's family were dead had not come as such a shock – it explained Bakura's cold, harsh personality and his burning anger, and why he travelled alone, living the life of a thief. Marik felt a rush of sympathy for him. He couldn't imagine losing your entire family – losing his parents had been hard enough, even if his Father died by his own hand.

The desert stretched endlessly empty around them, but Bakura did not for an instant let his guard down. They ate on the move, travelling on to increase the distance between themselves and the city, not for a moment wanting to risk the guards finding them. Menes swayed a little in his saddle, but Bakura kept even pace beside him, his grey eyes constantly watching.

It was late afternoon when the cry that none of them wanted to hear sounded from Thut.

"Guards!"

Bakura cursed. He span to his right, looking past Menes to see Thut staring grimly out to the horizon, his hand hovering over his axe. "Where?"

"Coming down from the north."

Bakura cursed again. "They must have left through another gate to the city. Move." He kicked his heels into his stallion's flanks, upping their pace to a gallop.

Marik clutched at the black stallion's mane with his heart in his mouth. He twisted, trying to peer around Bakura to catch a glimpse of the guards. He fancied he saw a hint of movement out at the horizon, sand flying up in a trail headed straight for them.

"Can you see them?" Bakura muttered into his ear, his tone tense.

Marik jerked his head once. "Just."

"How far?"

"Very. They're at the horizon … but they're getting closer."

Bakura cursed again. The dull thud of the horse's hooves on the sand echoed as loud as screaming in Marik's ears, and he had to physically stop his hands from trembling. His stomach was doing somersaults within him, the blood pounding through his veins at an alarmingly dizzying rate.

"How long can the horses keep up this pace?" Marik eventually asked again.

"Not long enough," Bakura growled. "Keep an eye on those guards."

Marik obediently twisted again, peering around Bakura's right arm to watch the approaching guards. The trail of flying sand looked closer already, and he could just about make out the shape of horses. He would hazard a guess that there were a dozen at least, but it was hard to tell from this distance.

He prayed they would never get close enough to find out.

"I count fifteen," Anen called from their rear, "And it seems like there's a Priest with them."

Bakura hissed through his teeth. "Which one?"

"I don't know, it's too far."

"Then just keep riding." Bakura's tone was low and strained, and Marik could hear the worry leaking through it. His heart leapt up to his throat as they continued, and he twisted again, watching as the guards drew closer and closer.

"Ibebi," Bakura turned to his left, "Get your bow ready."

Ibebi nodded, his hand already twitching to nock an arrow.

They rode on for several tense minutes, the thud of the guards' hooves closing every nearer, the gap between them shortening inch by inch by inch. Marik kept his eyes fixed on the distant speck that was the guards, trusting Bakura to steer the stallion as the desert rushed past them, empty on all sides apart from that ever-nearing column. The distance was closing further.

"Thief King!" Thut's voice sounded again, but there was a more panicked tone to it this time. "Menes!"

Bakura's head whipped round to his right to see that Menes had, once again, slumped forward in his saddle. Exhaustion was showing through his features, and his grey mare gave a loud whinny, rearing at the sudden dead weight on her back.

Bakura snarled. He threw his body sideways, grabbing the grey mare's reins and juddering to a sharp halt. Marik gasped, grabbing haphazardly for the stallion's reins to hold him steady.

Bakura placed a hand on Menes' shoulder, shaking him harshly along with low mutters of his name, but Menes wasn't responding. His body lay limp, shaking and shuddering with Bakura's movements.

"He needs rest," Ibebi's panicked voice sounded from Bakura's other side. He sat astride his horse with an arrow nocked, his bow directed at the ever-oncoming guards.

Bakura hissed. "We have no time."

"He can't travel like this!"

Bakura released a steady stream of curses, glancing from Menes to the guards and then back to Menes. His face creased, but then turned hard with a decision.

"Chief, I don't mean to worry ya," Seti chirruped from the side, "But them guards are about ten minutes away, tops."

Bakura hissed, then made up his mind. "Right. Stay here, all of you – the guards will follow me."

Anen stared at him. "You can't mean…"

"There's no other way."

Without a further word, Bakura drove his heels into his stallion's flanks and he was once more galloping across the desert, this time driving hard north-west, away from both the guards and the other thieves. Menes, Ibebi, Anen, Seti, and Thut soon disappeared behind them.

Marik squawked. He grabbed at the black stallion's mane, clutching on as tight as he could as Bakura leaned in close behind him. He swallowed, casting another stare back to the thieves, then to the guards, wetting his lips before he spoke. "Where are we going?"

"We have to lead the guards away from Menes." Bakura's tone was matter-of-fact, but his voice was low and strained, and his fingers were clenched tight about the reins.

Marik felt his stomach drop. "You think they'll follow you?"

"They no doubt have my description, and we're riding closer to them," Bakura pointed out sagely. "It should buy the others enough time to get away."

"And us?"

Bakura's silence spoke volumes.

Marik swallowed, but his violet eyes turned hard.

"Keep your eyes on those guards," Bakura hissed into his ear.

Marik nodded, looking out to their right to watch the guards drawing ever nearer. His eyes followed the dots of the guards, getting closer and closer, the sand flying up from their horses' hooves. He could just about make out the white-robed figure at the front, and his eyes widened a little when he recognised him. "Mahaad. The Priest is Mahaad."

Bakura paused before answering, "Ah. I suppose he wants his Ring back."

"Probably."

Bakura cursed under his breath. Unbidden, his arms tightened around Marik, and then Bakura's lips were right by his ear. "I should have got you your own horse. Then you would be safe back with the others."

Marik shivered a little, his heart warming, but his tone was disparaging when he spoke. "As if I'd just let you ride off into danger by yourself."

"You are a fool, Marik." Bakura's tone was low and heavy with an emotion that Marik couldn't place. "…But I cannot say I am dissatisfied."

Marik merely jerked his head in a nod. His eyes were still fixed on the approaching guards, watching as Mahaad drew closer and closer. Marik could see the long white robes billowing out behind him, the gold glinting at his wrists and ankles, and the sun shining off the white headdress that he wore.

"They're almost on us," Marik murmured.

Bakura grunted once, tersely. He could hear the hooves thundering through the desert, surrounding them.

They went for a few more minutes until the guards pushed ahead of them, and they were surrounded.

Bakura's black stallion reared, wheeling, and then landed on the desert directly in front of Mahaad. Bakura fixed him with his usual lazy smirk, his arms still encircling Marik, protecting him from the long line of arrows pointed directly their way. "This is a warm welcome indeed, Priest."

Mahaad watched him carefully, his eyes just once flicking down to Marik. Surprise flickered across his features. "Tombkeeper?"

Marik glared at him. "Don't call me that."

"But you … you are exiled, aren't you?" Mahaad looked from him to the Thief King, honest confusion on his face. "Has this criminal kidnapped you?"

Despite himself, Marik snorted, and even Bakura chuckled lowly at that. "I doubt I could if I wanted to."

Mahaad's eyes narrowed. "Marik, you are aware that he is the Thief King?"

"Oh believe me, I am," Marik answered easily, his violet eyes fixing in a glare on Mahaad. "He's also the one who's kept me alive, rather than casting me out into exile."

Mahaad's eyes widened in shock. "So you are working with him?!"

Bakura's grip tightened around Marik's waist in response.

Mahaad's eyes suddenly grew cold, shocked into understanding. "Wait. Was it you who told him how to get the Ring?"

Marik's brow creased, and he fixed Mahaad with a sharp stare.

Mahaad's jaw clicked. "Your silence proclaims you guilty. You have turned against us, Marik."

"Actually," Marik muttered, "I think you turned against me, the day I was exiled."

Mahaad shook his head, almost disappointed, He approached them, the guards parting to give him space, although all their arrows remained fixed on Marik and Bakura.

"Dismount," Mahaad ordered.

Bakura clicked his tongue, still smirking. "Now, why would we do that?"

"Because I will demand the return of the Items, and then you will be coming back to the Palace with us for questioning."

"I don't think we really want to do that," Bakura answered sagely.

Mahaad fixed him with a stern stare. "Do not be ridiculous. Dismount, or you will have ten arrows in you before you can speak again."

Bakura's jaw clicked, and he flicked a careful glance around the circle of guards. There was no gap, no escape route – at least, not yet. So, he grasped Marik's arm and easily leaped off the great black stallion, Marik landing in the sand beside him.

Mahaad dismounted too, approaching them with his long white robes wafting wide around him. He held out a hand towards Bakura. "The Items, and your weapons, now."

Bakura sent him a measured look. "You think it will be that easy?"

"I think you don't have a choice."

"Then you have underestimated me again, Priest." Without another word, Bakura leapt for Mahaad, one hand dipping into his long red cloak and emerging with a blade clutched tight in his grip. Mahaad had little time to do more than step back, and then Bakura was on him. He twisted Mahaad's arm up behind his back, pressing the knife against his throat in a very practised manner, and whirled to face the guards. He wasn't even panting. "I suggest you call your guards off, if you don't want to lose your life," he hissed into Mahaad's ear.

Mahaad struggled, kicking, but Bakura was clearly the stronger of the pair. However, Mahaad flicked a look at one of the guards, his fingers forming a signal by his side, and the guard moved.

Before Marik knew what was happening, the guard leapt off his horse and ran for Marik, and his arrow was pointed right at Marik's chest.

Bakura's expression darkened.

"Release me," Mahaad managed to gasp, "Or the tombkeeper dies."

Bakura snarled. He hitched Mahaad closer to him, the knife pressing hard enough into his throat to allow a trickle of blood to drift down his brown skin. "I think you have this backwards. Call off your guards, or you will die."

Mahaad choked, but otherwise kept silent.

Marik's brows furrowed. He would not allow himself to simply become another hostage, and certainly not to the detriment of Bakura. He shot the Thief King one glance, then his gaze fixed back on the arrow pointing at his chest, and he shifted down into a crouch.

Bakura's eyes instantly snapped onto him.

Marik sent him one more reassuring glance, then he moved in a fluid series of movements, just as Bakura had taught him. All their sparring sessions were finally paying off, it seemed, as Marik dived for his knife and launched himself at the guard.

The guard gave a shout of surprise, moving back enough for Marik to catch him off-balance. It was almost easy to knock the bow out of his grip, the arrow falling safely to the sand, and then Marik forced him down to the ground and leaped onto his back.

The guard grunted, struggling, but Marik held him down firmly, the tip of his knife pressing into the back of the guard's neck. He sent Bakura a smirk, then turned to Mahaad. "You were saying?"

Mahaad glared at him, speaking around Bakura's tight grip. "I had more faith in you, tombkeeper."

"After you just had an arrow pointed at my chest?" Marik snorted, keeping his knife firmly pressed to the back of the guard's neck. "You are a fool, Mahaad."

Mahaad clicked his teeth. He had little choice now, however, and so turned to the other guards, speaking in a clipped tone. "Continue with the plan."

The guards stepped back, hesitating. One of them spoke up. "Priest, are you sure…"

"I can handle this. Now go."

Without another word, the guards wheeled their horses and galloped away across the desert. Marik moved back slowly, keeping the knife held out in front of him as he let the guard he had trapped stand up to join the others. The guard mounted his horse and rode off, with one last long look at Mahaad.

Bakura waited until they were long out of sight before he finally released Mahaad and stepped back to Marik's side, the knife still gleaming in his hand. His smirk was back at his lips, although his body was tense. "You are a fool indeed, to fall into my grip."

"Not for long." Mahaad looked him right in the eyes, extending a hand. "I still expect the Items."

"And what on earth makes you think I will hand them over to you now?" Bakura's tone was faintly amused.

Mahaad sent him a clinical look. His tone was clipped when he answered. "Because my guards are currently heading to the camp of your fellow thieves, and I will not allow you to leave here with the Items."

Bakura's face dropped to a thunderclap.

Marik felt his stomach drop like a stone. Of course! Menes, Ibebi, Thut, Anen, Seti … they were all still in the desert, not too far from here, and the guards were most likely galloping towards them at this very moment. There was no way they could take down so many, not with Menes injured as he was and when they were tired from travelling.

Bakura cursed under his breath, coming to the same conclusion as Marik. He fixed Mahaad with a livid grey stare. "What makes you think I won't just kill you where you stand and flee into the desert?"

"Because I have guards watching you, too," Mahaad answered patiently, "And I know enough of a thief's honour to think you will not leave your men behind."

Bakura's gaze did not for one instant stray from Mahaad's. "You have played a dangerous game, Priest." He lifted the knife in his grip and dropped down into his catlike stance, edging slowly across the desert.

For all his bravado, Mahaad still stepped back.

Bakura growled, his knife flashing in his grip. He advanced another step or two, grey eyes fixed straight on Mahaad, his expression a resounding clap of seriousness. "You play a _very_ dangerous game in threatening me."

Mahaad, to his credit, kept his cool. "If you give me the Millennium Items, I will let you go to your men."

Bakura growled. "I will kill you now, and go to them anyway."

Mahaad did nothing except lift his eyes slightly, but it was enough. Marik span to follow his gaze, and sure enough, up on the top of a nearby sand dune, a row of archers stood with their arrows pointed directly at Marik.

"The tombkeeper will be the one to pay the price," Mahaad answered levelly.

Marik snarled. "I am not some hostage of yours, Mahaad."

"No, but you picked your side a long time ago." Mahaad's eyes focused in on Marik, his expression hard. "How you dared to give him my Ring…"

" _My_ Ring, actually," Bakura corrected in his smooth, low voice, "And my Rod, and Necklace, and Puzzle, and indeed all the Items. They _all_ rightfully belong to me."

Silence reigned until Mahaad hissed, "How can you speak such blasphemy?"

"The _blasphemy_ lies with the Palace," Bakura spat, "And all those who use the Items."

Mahaad's eyes widened a little.

Bakura approached, the knife in his hand raised, but Mahaad lifted a warning hand in a signal to the archers and the sound of several arrows being nocked rang through the desert. Bakura cursed under his breath.

"The Items," Mahaad spoke again with a level stare, "And you will be free to go to your men."

"Free to die with them, you mean," Bakura hissed.

Mahaad kept his face impassive.

Silence held for an impossible length of time before, finally, Bakura released a frustrated growl. He reached into his cloak, his movements slow and careful, and then his fingers emerged clutching the gold of the Millennium Items. The Rod, the Necklace, and the Ring, all within his grasp. Their power thrummed beneath his fingers.

Mahaad reached out a hand. His dark eyes glinted, but his expression remained impassive, and his white headdress shifted slightly in the calm of the desert breeze.

Bakura placed the Items in his grip, his gaze fixed on Mahaad. He didn't let go. "Give me your word that your men will leave."

"I cannot do that, Thief King."

"Then give me your word that your archers will not harm us."

Mahaad clicked his tongue.

"If you do not," Bakura purred, his tone low and silky and dangerous, "Then I will kill you where you stand, consequences be damned."

Marik did not doubt for an instant that Bakura was speaking the deadly truth. He watched, his heart in his mouth, as Mahaad deliberated for a long moment, his gaze never leaving Bakura's.

"…Alright, Thief King," Mahaad finally relented, "You have my word. My archers and I will return to the Palace as soon as the Items are in my grasp."

Bakura dipped his head once in a silent nod. Then, slowly, almost painfully slowly, his fingers dropped from the gold of the Millennium Items and he stepped back.

Marik instantly flew to his side.

Mahaad held their gazes for one more moment before backing up carefully. He reached for his horse, vaulting up onto its back, and then called to his archers, pointing back towards the Palace. Just before he left, he turned once more to the tombkeeper and the Thief King. "Go to your men."

"To meet more of your guards, I am sure," Bakura hissed in response.

Mahaad simply inclined his head before turning and galloping away across the desert.

Bakura only waited until they were out of immediate danger before another loud, furious curse ripped through his lips. He tore at his hair, his body physically trembling, before he whirled to his black stallion and leapt up onto his back, reaching a hand down for Marik.

Marik wasted no time in jumping up after him. He was panting. "What are we going to do?"

"Get to the others," Bakura snapped tersely, "And warn them, if we are not too late. I fear the guards are upon them already." He kicked his heels into his stallion's flank as soon as Marik was in place, driving him forward with a loud, " _Hyah_!"

Marik clutched onto the stallion's mane, his face grim as they pounded back across the desert towards where they had left the others. His heart was leaping in his chest, his pulse racing, and his thoughts were crashing through his skull at such a dizzying rate that he could barely keep track. The most desperate of all was worry about the other thieves – Menes, Seti, Thut, Anen, Ibebi. He couldn't bear the thought of them in danger.

As he and Bakura crested the top of another sand dune, it quickly became apparent that they were too late.

Guards were swarming over the desert. The spot where they had left the other thieves was barely recognisable, so kicked up was the sand by the horses and arrows that ricocheted through the air. The black stallion reared up on top of the dune, whinnying loudly, and Bakura's curse was the loudest and foulest that Marik had ever heard leave his mouth.

Marik stared in horror.

The guards were everywhere. They coated the desert sand, leaving not a grain untouched, and it quickly became evident that there would be no path through them that didn't end in certain death. Of the other thieves, there was no sign. Marik acted on pure instinct; he span around to face Bakura, his violet eyes narrowed and calculating through the bleeding red of the setting sun. "We can't risk it."

"The fuck are you talking about?" Bakura snarled, his voice trembling.

"If we go down there, then you and I are dead, too!" Marik scowled. Without another word, he leapt off the black stallion, reaching up for Bakura to follow him.

Bakura glared down at him. "The fuck are you doing?"

"Do you trust me?" Marik hissed through clenched teeth.

Bakura growled.

"You have to trust me," Marik implored, his tone shaking. "Come on."

Bakura held his gaze for another long, long moment before he finally leapt off the stallion, growling, "You'd better know what you're doing, _Ishtar_."

"Trust me," Marik muttered. "Send your stallion away."

Bakura glared, but didn't question him any further. He slapped his stallion's rump, sending him galloping on across the desert, down through the melee of guards.

"They'll follow him," Marik hissed. He tugged Bakura down onto the sandy ground, creeping over the edge of the sand dune to watch the battlefield below them. Indeed, the words had barely left Marik's mouth than the guards spotted the stallion and a great shout went up.

"The Thief King!"

Within seconds, a swarm of guards had descended on the horse, weapons at the ready.

"Do you see?" Marik hissed into Bakura's ear. "That would have been us on there."

"I take your point," Bakura growled, "But we still need to get to the others."

"I'm working on that." Marik glanced around, then pointed to a trail around the edge of the guards, leading back towards where they had left the others. "Stick to the ground, and behind dunes where possible. We need to sneak."

"Sneaking, I can do," Bakura grunted. He gripped Marik's arm and started to lead him down the dune.

The journey felt like it was taking an age. With every inch of ground they covered, Marik's heart hammered louder in his chest, until it was feeling ready to explode right out of him and lie bleeding and beating on the ground. Bakura was an ever-present shadow at his side, moving with his silent footsteps down the dune, creeping ever closer towards the spot they had left the thieves.

They approached. Marik stuck to the edge of the dune, keeping Bakura close by his side as they approached. The sounds of fighting came from over the lip of sand, and they knew they had got close. Slowly, painfully slowly, they edged up to the top of the dune and peered over the edge, looking down to the campsite.

They were too late.

The guards were everywhere. Menes was lying on the sand, faint and pale, a sword fallen by his side. He was far too still. Ibebi, Thut, Seti, and Anen were standing over him, fighting as best they could, but they had no chance of survival, none at all, not with so many guards.

And neither did they, Marik realised with a heart-wrenching lurch. He and Bakura would be dead the instant they revealed themselves.

He couldn't let that happen.

Bakura snarled, growling a deep, long curse as he lunged forwards, and Marik realised at the last heart-stopping moment that he meant to go ahead anyway. He was going to dive over the sand dune and join his men, fighting and dying by their side.

Marik couldn't allow that to happen.

With a gasp, Marik threw himself forward, throwing his hands around Bakura's waist and dragging him back below the lip of the dune. An animal-like snarl ripped between Bakura's teeth, and he fought, twisting his head to send Marik the darkest glare he had ever seen in his life. _"What are you doing?!"_

"You can't go out there!" Marik held him tight, pressing him against the sand even as the sound of the guards slaughtering his men continued to echo back to them.

 _"No!"_

Bakura's loud, desperate cry mingled with the shouts and screams of his men, cutting through the desert night as quick and sharp as a knife edge. He struggled, calling louder, his face set and his eyes blazing with fury, but Marik would not let him go. His arms were tight around the Thief King's waist, his expression set. "Stop!"

"Those are my men!" Bakura's voice rippled with his fury, laced with vehemence and disgust and something terrifyingly close to panic. Marik had never heard him sound so close to the edge before. Bakura's legs kicked, his thick body writhing, his arms reaching out above the sand dune in an effort to escape.

" _Stop and think_!" Marik's voice had never been more unwelcome to Bakura's ears.

"My men are dying," Bakura snarled.

"And if you go out there, you'll die with them!"

An unholy noise escaped Bakura's lips at that. He grappled and kicked, but Marik refused to let go, his violet eyes narrowed and his face twisted in determination. He grappled and struggled with Bakura, refusing to let go, but it was a hard fight because _Gods Bakura was strong._ Strength that had appealed to Marik so often in the past now served as his greatest enemy.

" _Let me go!"_ Bakura finally roared, his shout rippling the air with the effort of his fury.

"No."

"You must!" Bakura thrashed, and his eyes were wild as he turned his head to send Marik an almost desperate stare. "I'm not watching my people die _again_ …!"

Marik paused, although he didn't loosen his grip. He stared at Bakura. "…Again?"

" _Kul Elna_." Bakura spat the two words at Marik, his body still writhing.

Marik's expression shifted, but he still didn't understand. Kul Elna? Why was Bakura bringing those mysterious words up _now_ , in the midst of such a bloody battle?

Bakura took advantage of Marik's momentary distraction to make another lunge for his men. Marik recovered himself quickly, and with his mind still reeling he threw himself on top of Bakura, ceasing his struggles and holding him down.

Bakura howled. " _Let me go!"_

"No," Marik admonished quietly. He held onto Bakura, determined, nails scratching Bakura's waist and leaving deep marks in his skin. Bakura's struggles were as violent as ever, and in the struggle he was mercifully kept from watching the slaughter of his men. All around the sand they lay, bleeding and dying and burning and dead, Menes and Seti and Thut and Ibebi…

Anen was the last to die. His hands were thrown in front of his face, his last cry pleading, begging for his life. _Weak_ , Bakura thought bitterly, _weak to the end, as all men are._ _Including myself, it seems._ The fight went out of him when the light left Anen's eyes. Marik, cautious but relieved when he felt Bakura still, loosened his grip a little, but he kept his arms wound tight around Bakura. He craned his neck just enough to see the Palace guards stomp amongst the bodies, rifling through for anything valuable. _Thieves, the lot of them. How ironic._

It didn't take long for the bodies to be ransacked, and the Palace guards left.

The desert was as quiet as if they'd never been. The rustling of the sand in the occasional breeze was the only sound to grace the silent night, aside from the _drip drip_ of bright red blood as it soaked into the sand.

Bakura was ice, filled with cold fury.

He remained still, too still, his gaze locked on the bodies of his men, before he rounded on Marik in his fury. " _Out._ "

Marik released Bakura slowly, moving back with his hands in the air. "Now…"

" _Out!"_ Bakura's cry was as harsh as the swords that the guards used to slit the thieves' throats. His eyes were wild, his hair dishevelled, and Marik had never seen him look this undone before. The fury twisting his features was darker than Mark had ever seen.

Marik's glare hardened. "You don't want me to…"

"You don't know what I _want_ ," Bakura snarled, his words almost inhuman. " _Out_ , now, before I kill you myself."

Marik's eyes widened momentarily.

"I _mean it_ , boy, out! I won't hesitate to slaughter you!"

Marik took one look at Bakura's wild, crazed eyes, and decided he was serious. He got slowly to his feet, expression still set and determined. "I'm not leaving you for good."

"I don't give a _damn_ about you," Bakura hissed, "Now _out_!" He was shaking.

Marik recoiled, his mask slipping for just an instant to show how much that hurt. Then, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Bakura alone and shaking amongst the remnants of his men.

 **…Angst. I tried to warn you.**

 **Also, I hope everything in this chapter makes sense. And it isn't the end of the story! I promise it ends happily … ish. As happily as it can after that. Aheh. Thank you so much for reading this far, and I beg I haven't destroyed you all so much that you won't read until the end now – Jem**


	22. Chapter 22

**…*crawls back in* sorryyyyy about last chapter. I never really thought people would get so invested in my OCs, they're just my little creations, but I'm honoured you were! And thanks for your lovely reviews 3 Soooo after all that angst, here is the aftermath, and this is the second-last chapter**

 **Warnings for this chapter: some descriptions of injuries**

 **Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are Kazuki Takaashi's**

The night was cold and harsh, and the first one Marik had spent alone since the night he was found by the Thief King's men.

Seti and Menes, it had been, who first happened across Marik in the desert, when he was sheltering under that meagre rock with his hands still bound in chains. They're voices had been welcome, though Marik was terrified at the time. Menes had smiled at him when he gave him water, his dark eyes bright behind those gold-rimmed glasses, and Seti had laughed at him even then.

All gone now.

They had brought him into the Thief King's camp, and Marik remembered the cold heavy weight of fear as it weighed down his limbs, holding him in place. He had never been more frightened than that night, among the infamous group of thieves; the ones he was sure would kill him in the end.

Instead, they had become his greatest friends, and the only group of people in his life to ever treat him fairly.

All gone now.

Marik's heart was dull in his throat. He remembered all their faces – Menes' glasses glinting in the sun, matching the brightness of his grin; Seti's dark chortling laughter and his pale eyes that had seen too much; Thut's high, girlish chuckle despite the apparent huge brawn of his body; Ibebi's sleek hair and thin lips, his heart that had held so much; and Anen's cropped dark air and smiling mouth, his eyes carrying knowledge that no one else held.

All gone now.

Marik cursed himself softly as he strode through the desert. He had been walking all night – he didn't know where or for how long. All he knew was that walking made it easier to distract himself, and if he stopped, he would have to think. He didn't think he could take that.

Bakura's fury when he had sent Marik away sat like lead in his gut. And he was right to – he was right. Marik felt as if this entire debacle was entirely his fault. If Isis hadn't warned the guards, if she hadn't given them the Items, then the thieves would probably still be alive and living out in the desert, joking about eating meat or who got the most gold from their last loot.

Marik's stomach flipped.

He stopped walking, his hands knuckling at his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel tears burning behind his lids – weak, just as he was – and he let them fall, spilling out to leave tracks down his cheeks. He would never see any of the thieves again. He wasn't even sure if he would see Bakura again, after the fury with which he had sent Marik away. The emotion in his burning grey eyes had been far more ferocious than anything Marik had seen before.

Marik sank down onto his knees on the sand, tipping his head back to look up at the sky. The moon was a crescent sitting high up in the atmosphere, its pale light turning the sand silver. The deep blue canvas of the sky was pinpricked with glittering stars. The beauty of the night sky was completely lost to Marik's broken gaze. All he could see was the glistening red of blood as it leaked into the desert sand. He had fought for his entire life to see a sky such as the one spiralling up above him now – fought with tooth and nail, claw and knife, as much as he possibly could, all for the opportunity to see a sky like this. Was it worth it, in the end? Was it worth it, for the price he'd had to pay?

At that thought, Isis' familiar words echoed back in his skull. She had predicted two futures – two futures, one ending his death, one ending in freedom but at a price. Was this the price she had meant? The deaths of all his friends?

Was it worth it, in the end?

Marik felt his brows furrow. He couldn't deny that he was still relieved to be alive. And those thieves – Anen, Seti, Menes, Thut, Ibebi – they had fought to give him a chance to live. They had fought by his side countless times, teaching him to hunt, to live, to fight. They would want him to live. And they would certainly want Bakura to live.

That was when Marik made up his mind.

Slowly, his bones creaking and his mouth bone-dry after a night out in the freezing desert air, Marik got back to his feet. His legs shook beneath him, his hands clenching into fists by his sides, but his eyes were hardened and his face was set as he turned back towards the horizon. He wasn't done yet.

And neither was Bakura.

…

Marik couldn't have said how long it took him to find his way back to the place where the fallen thieves lay. He followed his footprints, weaving a haphazard trail through the sand, as easy to read as if he had painted hieroglyphs behind him to point out his every move. At least the guards would no longer be looking for them – they had already done their damage.

Marik crested the top of the sand dune with nausea rolling around in his stomach. He shut his eyes at first, unsure whether or not he would be able to stomach the sight he knew was waiting for him, although in the end he knew he had no choice. He was partly to blame for this, after all – he had to see the outcome to his actions.

Hesitantly, Marik opened his eyes.

The thieves were still lying dead on the sand. Blood pooled around them – so much blood it was a wonder the human body could hold so much – staining the sand red and bleeding with a rich colour as the sun started to peek over the horizon. The sky was bleeding to match the thieves.

Menes lay still in the centre. His glasses were broken, strewn across his face, but his final expression was peaceful at least. Seti was close by his side, one hand thrown over his face, his body curled up in the foetal position. Ibebi was on his other side, his body crumpled and broken so much that it was almost unrecognisable. Thut lay a little distance away, even his vast body fallen and bloodstained.

Anen was the furthest away of the thieves. His body was curled up tight in a ball, his spear still clutched in his grip, as bloodied as the rest of him. His cropped hair was matted, his skin cold, and his eyes open and lifeless.

Bakura was standing over him.

Marik swallowed when he saw Bakura's face. Pain creased his every feature. His long red cloak hung lifeless about him, his silver-white hair falling mindlessly into his eyes, but Bakura did not move. His every muscle was locked in tension, still and almost as lifeless as the men who lay at his feet. But, his chest was moving with the breath of life.

Marik approached him slowly. The desolate wilderness of the empty desert fell cold and heavy about them, the sun's warmth not leaking through to touch them, but Marik was certain Bakura heard his footsteps. He never had been any good at moving silently.

Indeed, no sooner had he walked three steps than Bakura's head snapped up to meet him.

Marik froze.

They held each other's gazes for a long, heavy moment, neither of them willing to break the silence. Marik licked his lips, nerves jumping in his stomach and setting his veins alight. It was impossible to read Bakura. He opened his mouth, and Marik didn't know whether it would be to kiss him or kill him.

Instead, four words dropped like stones from Bakura's lips.

"Help me bury them."

Marik understood immediately. Without speaking, with their movements heavy and lethargic, Bakura and Marik bent in the sand and dug five graves right there, with their bare hands. It took them hours, the rest of the day, but they worked tirelessly and without speaking until there were five graves, five tombs, nestled deep in the sand. Nothing like the richness of the tombs the thieves had robbed in their lifetimes, but better than the open desert sand.

They buried Menes first.

Then Thut, Seti, Ibebi, and Anen last of all. At him, Marik couldn't stop a slight catch in his throat when he saw Bakura's face. He looked completely broken. Moisture was dancing down his cheeks, his grey eyes cold and frozen in stasis.

When they were all placed deep beneath the ground, and covered carefully over with sand, Bakura bent and marked each of the five spots with a long arrow in the sand. He drew it with his finger, his face hard, and then stood staring as if it wasn't enough. It never could be enough.

Wordlessly, Marik walked forward. He crouched and, carefully, with his finger, he traced out the hieroglyphs of their names, inscribing them all into the sand. It was imperfect, and sloppy, and the wind would blow it away before the morning came, but it was the best he could do and the only way he knew how to honour them. Marik bowed his head, and felt tears cling to his lashes again.

"What does it say?"

Bakura's gruff voice interrupted Marik's musings. Marik sniffed and lifted his head, drawing in a shaky breath before he replied. "Their names. I just wrote out their names."

Bakura's silence seemed to weigh with approval. He crouched beside Marik, his fingers clenched in the hem of his long red robe.

Marik turned to face him, and almost flinched at the burning in his grey eyes. Bakura fixed him with a hard stare, and there was still anger in his expression – anger and sadness and betrayal and fear. It made for a potent mix.

Marik swallowed.

"Tell me," Bakura growled, his tone low and trembling, "Why did you stop me from saving them?"

"You couldn't have saved them," Marik answered immediately, although his voice wavered a little at Bakura's furious glare.

Bakura snarled. "You think?"

"You would have died along with them," Marik responded evenly. "You saw the number of guards."

"I should have done _something_ ," Bakura hissed.

Marik shook his head, burying his face in his hands. "There was nothing else to do."

"Well, there is now." Bakura's voice shook with anger. "I will hunt down each and every one of the guards responsible for this, and I will _end them_ , before storming the Palace and taking back the Millennium Items, and the Pharaoh's life as well."

Marik stared at him in shock.

"They will pay for this," Bakura growled. "They will _all_ pay."

"…You can't be serious," Marik eventually found the courage to respond.

Bakura turned on him immediately, fury flashing through his features. "And why not, _Ishtar_?"

Marik stared at him. "You'll get yourself killed!"

"No," Bakura snarled, " _They_ will be the ones to die this time."

"Getting the Millennium Items will achieve nothing…"

" _It will achieve everything_!" In a flash, Bakura had lunged for Marik, knocking him over in the sand. Bakura captured his wrists and leaned over him, the position threatening, his eyes flaring and bright with fury and hatred. "I will finally set my people free."

Marik stared at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

" _Kul Elna_ , Marik, do you still not understand?"

Marik stared at him uncomprehendingly.

And then, Bakura was laughing. It was a fit of uncontrollable laughter, dark and panicked and furious all at once, echoing over the desert like a knife through soft butter. Marik almost flinched at the sound.

"What is _Kul Elna_?" Marik's tongue wrapped around the unfamiliar syllables with difficulty.

"My village," Bakura spat, "Or it was, until the _Pharaoh_ and his men arrived."

Marik stared at him in horror. "What?"

And then, Bakura told him a story – the worst story Marik had heard in his life. He told of how the Millennium Items were created, and the human sacrifices that were required, and how the soldiers came to his village and killed all in their path, save the one boy who escaped the fire and blades. That boy had lost everything that night. The spirits of his people were trapped in the Items, their life energy used to give them magic.

Marik looked sick.

"Anen found the boy that night," Bakura continued in a low hiss. "Wandering and lost, a seven year old boy. Anen found him and took him in. He taught him the ways of the desert – he taught him the way of thieves. And then, he taught him how to be the Thief King."

Marik stared at him, horror clouding his features.

"They all joined over time," Bakura continued hollowly, "Thut, and Ibebi, and Menes, and Seti, and then a tombkeeper called _Ishtar_ with ties to the Palace."

Marik flinched.

"And now, their story is over too." Bakura's eyes were hollow, his expression like a shell. "…And I've lost everything again…"

Marik was speechless. He watched as Bakura leaned back, sitting on his haunches and allowing Marik to sit up. His body was stiff.

Marik saw up slowly, facing him. "I … had no idea…"

Bakura pinned him with a ferocious stare. "And now, you know why I must collect the Millennium Items."

"It's still idiocy," Marik responded.

Bakura snarled at him. "You _dare_ say that to me?!"

"I mean it!" Marik stared at him, honest shock in his eyes.

"I have no choice," Bakura hissed.

"You do." Marik glared at him. "You'll die if you go after it – Isis said so."

"I don't listen to superstitious nonsense."

"She saw it with the _Necklace_ , Bakura!" Marik leaned forwards and shook him, fury in his every feature. "The Necklace – it was influenced by the spirits of your people!"

"That's _exactly_ why I have to get the Items," Bakura hissed.

Marik glared at him. "You heard Isis as well as I did – two paths, one with death, one with freedom."

"But the freedom comes at a price."

"The _price_ was _their lives_!" Marik pointed down to the newly-dug graves in the sand, with the names of the thieves scratched out beneath them. His finger was trembling as he drew in a deep breath. "They died, but we are still alive. Are you honestly going to let their deaths just lead to the end of our lives, too?"

Bakura snarled at him. "I won't let them go unavenged."

"Chasing vengeance will only lead to your death." Marik's nostrils flared and he shook Bakura again, grabbing his shoulders and staring straight at him. "Will you make me see you die? Would the people of _Kul Elna_ have wanted you to die?"

Bakura grabbed Marik's hands and glared at him, his eyes narrow slits of fury. "I will see them all avenged."

"You will see yourself killed," Marik seethed, "And I will die right by your side."

At that, Bakura's breath rushed out through his lips in a huff. He pulled himself out of Marik's grip and stormed to his feet, striding about the sand with fury in his every motion. "You are _not_ going to die."

"And nor are you." Marik watched him move with stern violet eyes. His insides were wriggling, shifting, and he felt as if he was walking along the thin edge of a knife. This situation could tip either way – he didn't put it passed Bakura to try something extraordinarily reckless, and storm the Palace all by himself with no reinforcements and no way out. But Marik was not about to let him do that. He couldn't.

Bakura snarled, his hands fisting in his hair. "I have to avenge them. I _have to_."

"You don't." Marik's voice was strong, and he got to his feet, extending a hand towards Bakura. "Live for them instead."

Bakura stared at him with the look of a hunted rabbit.

"They're _dead_ , Marik," Bakura hissed, and his voice echoed hollowly within him. "All of them … they're all…" his voice broke and he buried his face in his hands.

Marik could feel himself teetering. He hadn't ever seen Bakura like this – lost, vulnerable, unsure of himself. He looked nothing like the great Thief King. If anything, he looked like a lost child.

Marik wet his lips. "They're dead, but you're not."

Bakura's shoulders shook.

Marik acted without thinking. He slid closer, winding his arms carefully about Bakura's shoulders, cradling him close. He nuzzled into Bakura's hair and held him tight, breathing in his achingly familiar scent, feeling along his familiar body. Uncharacteristically, Bakura clung to Marik, gripping him tight.

"Live for them" Marik murmured into his ear.

Bakura shivered. His body went stiff in Marik's arms.

Slowly, torturously slowly, Bakura drew back from Marik and fixed him with a hard stare, and this time, his grey eyes were burning again with an expression that Marik didn't much like. Bakura's mask was carefully back in place. "So," he spoke slowly, his tone low and throbbing, "You would have me give up so easily, _Ishtar_?"

Marik almost flinched at the venom in his tone. Instead, he squared his shoulders and glared. "I would have you survive."

"Do you think that matters to me _at all_?" Bakura's tone was low and silky smooth, and deadly serious too.

Marik licked his lips. "It matters to me."

Bakura continued to send him an even glance.

"If we're going to the Palace," Marik hissed, "Then we need to plan. Do you have any idea…?"

" _We_ are going nowhere, Marik."

Marik stopped short at that, his eyes widening.

Bakura took a silky step closer. " _You_ ," he hissed into Marik's ear, "Will be going somewhere safe, where you can wait for me to return."

Marik glared at him. "You would send me away somewhere to wait until I die?!"

"You will not…"

"I _will_ ," Marik seethed, "Because _you_ will not survive a siege on the Palace, certainly not alone and in this state."

Bakura's hands clenched tight into fists.

"There is another option," Marik spoke softly.

Bakura glared at him.

"Come with me," Marik urged. "We'll leave Egypt – go somewhere else, somewhere safe. And we will live for them. We will remember them."

Silence held for a long time as Bakura stared at Marik, deliberating. It stretched for long enough that Marik began to dare to hope, to believe that Bakura might actually be considering it.

He was to be disappointed.

"It isn't enough," Bakura finally answered, his tone a low, seething hiss. "It will never be enough, Marik."

Marik drew a step back. His brows furrowed as he stared at the thief he had come to call his life. "Then we go to the Palace?"

"…No." Bakura shook his head, twisting away, his head in his hands. "No, I … I need time. Wait here for me."

Marik stared, reaching out a hand. "Bakura, wait…"

Bakura ignored him. Instead, he turned and strode out into the desert, disappearing in a flash of his red cloak.

Marik watched him go, his heart once again in his mouth, and this time he felt as if his world was breaking all over again.

 **There's another chapter. I'm sorry, it's still really angsty, buuuuut next chapter is the last chapter and I promise the ending is fairly happy. xD Thank you so much for sticking with me this far! – Jem**


	23. Chapter 23

**Here we are at the last chapter! I hope you like it, and it is satisfying and happy. Thank you so super much to everyone who has been following, reading, and reviewing this story, especially Miss Tako and YxYY Lover, I am so grateful! – Jem**

It was late the next morning when Bakura returned.

Marik glanced up from his position lying on the sand. It was the second sleepless night he had spent – indeed, he wasn't entirely sure whether he would ever be able to sleep again, after the horrors of the past few days. He was alone again, and cold, and unsheltered in the desert, and his body felt weak and tired, as if he didn't know how to deal with this new situation.

Bakura approached him slowly across the sandy ground. His red cloak was fluttering slightly in the breeze, and his grey eyes were filled with exhaustion. His knife was in his hand; his hands were stained with blood.

Marik instantly leapt to his feet. He scurried over towards Bakura with his heart leaping into his throat, his pulse racing through his veins. Marik grabbed for his hands, but Bakura backed away tiredly, and then collapsed on the sandy ground.

Marik instantly crouched beside him, worry in his tone. "Where have you been?"

"I keep forgetting you're my wife now, Marik." Bakura's tone was exhausted and thin, nothing like his usual unruffled voice, but even this tiny return to their teasing was enough to send hope lurching through Marik's veins.

Marik managed a soft snort. He reached out for Bakura's hands, trembling a little at the sight of the blood. "What happened to you?"

"Don't sound so worried," Bakura groaned, falling onto his back on the sand, "It isn't my blood."

Marik blinked. He was unable to resist crawling to lie beside Bakura, nuzzling into his chest, relaxing by his side and breathing in his wonderfully familiar scent. Even bloodstained and filthy, exhausted as he was, Marik still found that he wanted nothing more than to stay by the Thief King's side.

"What were you doing?" Marik murmured after a time.

Bakura's eyes squeezed shut, and a slight grin lifted his lips. "I killed them."

Marik stared at him. "Killed who?"

"The guards." He tilted his head back. "Or most of them, anyway. A few of them were protecting Mahaad, and they got away…"

Marik's eyes shot wide open. "…What?!"

"I tracked them." Bakura's tone was filthy dark. "They were headed back to the Palace, but they hadn't got very far, so I caught up to them. They were out of practise – it was far too easy to take them by surprise."

"You _killed them all_?!"

Bakura opened one eye to grin at him. "Please don't tell me you're getting a sense of morals now."

Marik whacked him. "No. But how many guards are we talking?"

Bakura gave a light shrug. "Ten? Fifteen?"

Marik's eyes widened.

Bakura's grin only stretched, and he opened both eyes to pin Marik with a slightly amused stare. "Are you still underestimating me, Marik?"

Marik stared down at him, pursing his lips, before an impish grin crossed his features. "Apparently so."

"I thought you'd have learned your lesson by now."

Marik snickered, but then he shifted upright, staring down into Bakura's eyes. "…You got them all?"

"All the bastards that were here." Bakura's tone turned dark again, and he sat straight up, his grey eyes turning to the five new graves in the sand. "The ones responsible for … this."

Marik pursed his lips, his fingers clenching into fists. He turned to stare at the graves too, and when he spoke, his voice was fierce. "Good."

Bakura arched a brow at him.

"They deserved to die." Marik was trembling a little, but his voice was strong.

"…Not what you were saying yesterday," Bakura hissed.

Marik twisted to send him a harsh stare. "Why would you say that?"

"You told me not to get revenge," Bakura pointed out sagely, "And you told me to leave with you."

Marik drew in a careful breath. "I want to keep you alive. That doesn't mean I don't want to avenge their deaths."

"And yet," Bakura purred, leaning closer to Marik, "You tried to stop me. That's a dangerous game for most people."

Marik glared. "As I've said before, I'm not most people."

"Indeed, you are not." Bakura gave another low chuckle, lifting a hand to touch the side of Marik's face. He closed his eyes, taking a breath, before ducking closer to Marik's ear and breathing into it, "So you want us to leave Egypt?"

"I think it would be safest," Marik answered honestly, looking Bakura dead in the eyes.

"You want us to live for them, rather than die for them."

Marik nodded.

Bakura held his gaze for a long, silent moment, before a huff of sardonic laughter left his lips. "Gods dammit, Marik, when did you start infecting my thoughts so easily?"

Marik blinked at him. "What?"

"I'm actually considering it." Bakura shook his head. "Utter madness. I've been working for my vengeance since I was seven years old. Eight years of work!"

Marik swallowed.

"I'm about to give up eight years of planning because a tombkeeper wants me to." Bakura shook his head, clasping his hair between his fingers. "What the hell have you done to me, Marik?"

Marik licked his lips, then leaned forwards, and gripped both of Bakura's wrists. "Probably the same thing you did to me, when you made me run away with a tombrobber."

Bakura fixed him with a stare before he snickered softly. "Fair point."

Marik grinned at him, shifting a little closer. "So … are you considering it?"

Bakura gave another low laugh. "I'm already going to hell. Might as well enjoy life before we get there, hm?"

Marik paused for a moment before he gave a large, happy grin, and threw his arms around Bakura. He nuzzled close to him, pressing a kiss to his lips, and then leaned back. "There's something I want to do first, though."

Bakura arched a brow at him. "Oh?"

"Can you steal me parchment? And ink?"

Bakura frowned. "Now isn't the time for drawing pictures, Marik."

Marik shoved him. "I know. I want to … to write down our story."

Bakura lifted a brow. "Excuse me?"

Marik swallowed. "One day, I want people to know what really happened. I want them to know that Pharaoh Atem wasn't some wonderful Pharaoh, and he reigned over the horrors of our lives. It's only fair the historians get the truth."

Bakura watched him for a long, long moment, before his lazy smirk stretched his lips wide. Unbidden, he reached forward, dragged Marik closer into him, and pressed his lips to Marik's. They kissed for a long, long time until Bakura pulled back and murmured again, "Sometimes, Marik, you remind me of exactly why I love you."

Marik froze at those words.

Amazingly, a sense of warmth flooded through him, and he leaned into Bakura to kiss him again.

They held each other for a long time that night, and then Bakura left in the morning to steal Marik the parchment and ink he needed. Marik wrote for hours. He wrote about Kul Elna, about the tomb of his childhood, about Isis and Seti and Thut and Anen and Menes and Ibebi. He wrote about the Thief King that saved his life, and how they vowed to leave Egypt together, to live a new life.

Then, he buried it deep in the sand beside the five graves, and Marik and Bakura turned to walk into the desert, hand-in-hand.

-Epilogue-

Many millennia later, an archaeologist called Ryou Bakura strode through the ancient desert of Egypt. He glanced around the landscape, fancying himself among those ancient people, imagining what their lives were like in the days when Egypt was ruled by a Pharaoh.

He brushed his white hair behind his ears, flicking a glance around the desert. He had been out here for months, called in as the expert on a dig, but there wasn't honestly much to see at this site. Just another excavation of an old, tiny village. However, there had been some interest in a site a few miles away, where five unmarked graves had been found. Ryou had opted to come and see them, and as chance would have it, he was the first one on the dig.

Ryou smiled as he glanced down at the shifting sand under his feet. The diggers had been here all day, carefully excavating the ancient bones, but there wasn't very much to see. Just five unmarked bodies, in five unmarked graves – although they did bear some interesting weapons. One was still clutching a spear; another had a bow and arrow by his side. All were male, ranging in age from probably around nineteen to late-thirties.

"Archaeologist!"

Ryou looked up to see one of the dig men waving him over. He strode across, inclining his head once. "Yes?"

"Found something interesting."

Ryou dropped down into the hole, moving closer. The dig man was holding a pile of parchment, scratched out in ancient hieroglyphs. He shoved them towards Ryou. "Can't make much sense of it myself, but perhaps it will aid you more."

"Thank you," Ryou murmured in response, taking the sheets of parchment. They were incredibly well-preserved – being buried in the sand had left them mostly untouched, much like the bodies that were buried in the graves. He flicked through the pages, eyes scanning the ancient writing with ease. It looked unfamiliar, and exciting – he had never seen anything written in its style before, at least.

Ryou carefully placed the parchment in a bag and resolved to read them through again that evening, then returned to the dig site.

The sun was low in the sky by the time Ryou finally called it a day and made his way back to his hotel. He ate a simple dinner of steak and potatoes before settling in the provided armchair and once again reaching for the parchment, placing it carefully on his desk. The words were old and musty, but they echoed with a powerful intensity.

Ryou sat back and read.

He was soon engrossed.

He read late into the night, until his eyes were sore and stinging from poring over the tiny, cramped writing for so long. The hieroglyphs were rushed, hurried, but the story they told was as fresh as any Ryou read in his modern world. He became lost in the world of the tombkeeper and the tombrobber, the exile and the Thief King, Marik and Bakura. Their tale was one of horror, but it was also one of love, and he found it utterly compelling.

Ryou sat back when he was finished, and his breath was taken away. He closed his eyes and imagined them – the two ancient figures striding through the Egyptian desert, fleeing Egypt itself in the end. Had they done it? Had they escaped to another country, to live out their lives in relative peace?

Ryou liked to imagine that they had.

He never lost that dream, even when the parchment made him rich and famous, and he had sold a thousand books detailing the story of the tombrobber and the Thief King. Everyone knew the truth of Pharaoh Atem's reign, and they learned the story of Marik and Bakura, and took it to their hearts.

 **Lame ending FTW.**

 **So I hope this story was ok. It turned out way, WAY longer than I ever expected it to, and I never realised quite how much the angst would affect people. I am thrilled, though, and eternally grateful to everyone who has read this story of mine. Thank you so much for your support, this has been a surprisingly emotional project for me, and I am quite proud of the end result. ^^ I might, at some point, write a side-story about what Marik and Bakura did out in the world after they left Egypt, if anyone would be interested in reading it.**

 **Many thanks for making it to the end! – Jem**


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